


Nostalgia

by stashmckenagan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pre-Order of the Phoenix, So many tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stashmckenagan/pseuds/stashmckenagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fic that was written over 10 years ago and has been gathering dust on our hardrive, so we decided to share its dubious merits with the world. It was written before Order of the Phoenix was published, and is founded on an alternate Year Six scenario. In this universe, Sirius Black's name was cleared and after the events of the previous year, very few Slytherins have returned to Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back To Hogwarts

Draco Malfoy sighed heavily as he sat back in the comfort of his father’s “Formal Travelling” carriage. It was not a sigh of relief, but one of immense irritation. He was on his way to the station to catch the Hogwarts Express, but he had his reasons why he was reluctant to return to the famous wizarding school.

It was not, as one might presume, because Draco was a teenage boy and he hated school – in fact, he quite enjoyed learning, despite what others ( _Potter_ ) may think of him. It was simply because, although he was travelling to what had been nicknamed “Slytherin Station”, it was looking more and more like Draco was going to be the only Slytherin bothering to show up this year.

This was Draco’s sixth year at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. During the fifth year (much to his annoyance) many of his fellow Slytherin’s had transferred to Durmstrang, a school that prided itself on the Black Arts more than any other subject. Draco had complained and whined and shouted at his mother – for he would not have raised his voice to his father – but to no avail: he was stuck at Hogwarts.

And so here he was, sat in the back of a carriage with his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, whilst his father, Lucius, sat up front with the driver. Narcissa was speaking to him, although he was not sure what about. When she spoke, it was much more soothing just to listen to her soft, gentle voice, which was a drastically different tone altogether from her husbands’. Draco could tell he was going to need soothing. Being a Slytherin at Hogwarts was challenging enough.

Being the _only_ (and let us all remain aware that Draco is prone to exaggeration) Slytherin at Hogwarts was going to be a mini Tri-Wizard Tournament all of his own.

As the carriage finally rumbled around the last familiar bend that would take it to the station, Draco allowed his mother’s voice to finally take shape into words while he stared quite pointedly out the window in dejection.

“…and think of the opportunities, darling,” Narcissa was saying as she carried on, either unaware or blithely unconcerned that the majority of her speech had been lost on her son. “Perhaps now you will finally get your chance to rise to the occasion. Of course we all know that incompetent headmaster favours those horrid little Gryffindors, but if that incorrigible orphan boy and his band of ruffians try to attack you again with their primitive hexes, simply owl the manor and I’ll see to it that your Father takes care of it since obviously Severus is ill-equipped to keep those vulgar mudblooded children in line. Honestly, the incompetence of the staff is startling…”

Draco began to tune his mother out once more as she went off on her favourite pastime - belittling the faults of others. It wasn’t that he was not one to keep up on gossip, one never knew when the things heard on the grapevine would come in handy someday, but today he had more pressing concerns on his mind. Like how the carriage was finally slowing down in a way that could only be announcing his imminent doom.

Moments later, the carriage came to a halt completely and the door was swung open by a very dusty house elf who had spent the ride in its usual place, clinging to the back of the carriage. “Tippin will be needing to take your bags now, sir, Young Master Malfoy, sir.” When it looked as if the trembling elf was waiting to actually be handed the bags, it was fixed with a look of disdain by both Malfoys as they proceeded to ignore it.

“Are you sure you have everything, Draco darling?” Narcissa asked as she reached across to straighten the badge on his robe. “I personally made sure the servants packed _both_ sets of dress robes so we don’t have a fiasco like last time. I had them throw in your Quidditch robes as well though I wasn’t sure if you would need them-”

“If your done spoiling the boy, Narcissa, you might have noticed that we’re here.” Lucius Malfoy’s voice appeared moments before the man himself did in outside the door. “Sometime today, Draco.”

“Yes Father,” Draco replied automatically as he climbed out of the carriage, less than innocently letting his foot come in contact with the house elf’s as it went about tugging his bags and a large trunk down the step. As the creature went tumbling to the ground with the luggage landing squarely on top of it, Draco was the picture of refined nonchalance while taking his place at his father’s side though he was inwardly quite satisfied.

“Incompetent fools,” Lucius snarled at the clumsy elf as it struggled out from underneath its burden. “Well? Get up.”

“Tippin is sorry, sir, Master Malfoy sir,” the elf squeaked as it finally regained its balance before clocking itself on the head with one of the smaller bags for good measure, which only caused it to topple over again.

Lucius continued to look upon the house elf with utter disdain, before looking at his son and walking away from the carriage, clearly expecting Draco to follow. Narcissa planted a kiss on Draco’s cheek, whispering him a quick, “Good bye, darling. Keep an eye on those nasty little children in Gryffindor. And wash behind your ears.” Squirming away from his mother, Draco then proceeded to follow Lucius towards the platform, where the Hogwarts Express was waiting. 

“Now, son,” Draco could hear his father saying in a clearly well-planned manner that indicated to Draco that he should absolutely listen, and listen well. Draco knew when his father wasn’t playing games, and now was apparently one of those times. Come to think of it, Lucius Malfoy wasn’t really a game player, unless you counted dirty rotten cheating and lying games, which Draco didn’t. “I want you to be careful this year. There will be less support for you and the other Slytherins, and you must remember, it is important to uphold the name that you were born into.” 

“I was born into Malfoy,” Draco pointed out, and on his father’s disapproving look, he looked down at the floor. “Sorry, Father.”  

The clock on the wall indicated he had precisely three minutes until the train would leave, and he glanced hastily at Tippin the House Elf, who was quickly loading things into the baggage compartment. _Obviously_ , Draco thought bitterly, _it would be terrible for him to miss this train, as it were the only way he would get to Hogwarts. Obviously._  

Clearing his throat rather strictly and pointedly, Lucius seemed to have also noticed the time, and he held out a black-gloved hand to Draco. Apparently family hugs were out of fashion these days, or at least they were in the Malfoy circles, along with kisses, smiles and any other form of friendly gesture.  

Draco frowned slightly and, looking once more at the train, he brought his hand out also, ready to shake his father’s. Before he could make skin contact, however, Lucius pulled his own hand away and tutted lightly, shaking his head and saying, “Draco, boy, what is one of the essential rules of battle?” 

“Never shake hands with your opponent.” 

“And why?” 

“Because you never know what they’ll be hiding?”

Lucius gave a light nod, and as though to prove his point, he held open his hand, in which a small, but very sharp looking razor blade sat. “Have a good term, Draco.”

***

Draco sat in a compartment by himself, staring out with a despondent air onto the scenery whizzing past, mentally bemoaning his fate. As there were only a mere handful of other Slytherins seated together for once in another box, Draco had tired of their company rather quickly and sought out a more remote area where he might find a moment’s peace. After all, very few of the remaining Slytherins were even in his year, and among them were…

“Draco, there you are!” A shrill voice interrupted his thoughts, causing him to sigh inwardly without bothering to look away from the window. _Speak of the devil,_ he thought dryly. No, surely even the devil would be better company than…

“Pansy,” he acknowledged in clipped politeness, hoping that if he did not engage in conversation she would just…go away. She didn’t.

“I was wondering where you disappeared to,” Pansy continued as she took the seat across from him. “Millicent was certain you had gone off to hassle the first years, but I didn’t hear any of them crying yet so I told her, ‘Millicent, darling, when Draco sets his mind to tormenting the little brats, you won’t have to ask if he has or not because it will be _obvious_ ’. Honestly.” She turned her pug nose up with an indignant sniff before continuing after the briefest of pauses. It was moments like this that gave Draco the strong suspicion that there was such a thing as karma. “People are still talking about the time you turned that future Hufflepuff’s toad into a slime flavored bean and tossed it in a bag of Bertie Botts, you know. And then when that mudblood Gryffindor witch tried to turn it back for him, the entire bag turned into toads-”

“I remember. I imagine it’s one of the unexpected side effects to having actually been there,” Draco drawled in a bored tone as he finally fixed Pansy with an indulgent smile though he was silently cursing his fate all the while. Since their first year, the gibbering girl had attached herself to him in the most obnoxious manner. The years had been somewhat kind to her, giving her a rather shapely figure accentuated by her long, straight hair, but she was still hardly beautiful. Her face, Draco often mused, looked as if it had been shut in a door. He tolerated her because she was occasionally useful, but those moments were few and far between. Had she been anything other than a Slytherin, he would have turned the girl very suitably into a chattering magpie by now. It wasn’t easy being the most powerful and handsome boy in all of Hogwarts.

“Oh yes, of course. Of course you remember, Draco. I was simply stating how much of an impression it made. That little boy still gets twitchy whenever he looks at you, it was marvelous,” Pansy tittered from behind her hand. “Oh but isn’t it horrible that Vincent and Gregory transferred to Durmstrang this year?"  'Vincent' and 'Gregory', otherwise known as Crabbe and Goyle, had been Draco's oversized bodyguards since their first year at Hogwarts. And yes, it was horrible that they had transferred. Even if Draco had often suspected that they barely shared a brain cell between them, they had been his loyal minions and the closest thing to friends Draco had ever really been allowed to have. And given his present company, who could really blame him? "I couldn’t believe it when I heard. I just hate to think of you being all alone Draco, you know if you need anything at all you only have to ask and I for one will be more than willing to do everything I can-”

“Tell you what, why don’t you sit tight and get to work planning how to go about that,” Draco said as he stood to his feet. “Take your time. No really, I insist.”

“But where are you going?”, Pansy asked as Draco swept out of the compartment, not hearing him mutter under his breath once he had cleared the doorway, “away from _you_ , Parkinson.”

Draco continued to walk past the separate carriages on the train, giving a short laugh as he spotted three first year children, who reminded him of a certain three Gryffindors, trying to turn the seats green with a words charm. The girl, Draco decided, was clearly the most annoying of the three, and utterly precocious ( _not in a good way_ , Draco thought.)

And in the next compartment of the train, were the certain three Gryffindors, and Ron’s younger sister, the equally as redheaded Ginny, who Draco pointedly didn’t pay attention to.

“Oh come on, Hermione,” Ron could be heard complaining. “It’s the first day back! And we didn’t even have homework!”

Harry laughed, but Hermione was clearly not impressed. “We did too, Ronald Weasley. Professor McGonagall wanted us to look through “Hogwarts : A History”, and take down every reference to transfiguration, and then put it in alpha-“ The once bushy-haired girl stopped, frowned and turned bright red. “Oh, she was joking, wasn’t she?”

Ron and Harry burst out laughing, but their laughter soon filtered out as they saw who standing watch them. It was, of course, Draco. Ron was the first to speak up, glaring at Draco from his seat and folding his arms protectively across his chest. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“I was simply observing idiot behavior,” Draco purred effortlessly, raising his eyebrows at Hermione as though she may have possibly been the most stupid creature on Earth. Hermione turned a darker shade of red, but her expression was now fairly angry. The bossy Gryffindor had hit a growth spurt over her fifth year, but she was still dwarfed in comparison to her two companions, who had shot up as well. Turning to Ron (who had yet to grow into his new inches and was positively _gangly_ ), Draco added, “So, are they doing hand-me- _ups_ in your family now, Weasley? I know you’re all shrill and girly, but there’s no excuse for _that_ jumper.”

This was enough to get Ron shooting out of his seat, and Harry had to pull him back so that, as the train jolted forward, he didn’t fall over. This only added to Draco’s amusement, and he gave a nasty smirk. “Is that your sister, Weasley?”

Ginny looked up suddenly, jolted out of her daydream as she looked over to Draco. She had seen and heard plenty enough about Draco Malfoy to know he was bad news. Bad news with a rotten cherry on top, so she simply turned back to the window.

“She’s almost as weird looking as you. And you look almost more like a girl than she does.”

Once again, Ron started from his seat, and this time so did Harry, and they both said in unison, “Shut up, Malfoy!” although Ron’s was slightly louder and, to his annoyance, definitely shriller.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming in here without your body guards, Malfoy,” Harry added as his hands instinctively clenched into fists at his side, having noticed the conspicuous absence of Draco’s usual posse. “Maybe you forgot what happened the _last_ time-”

“When you and the little fanclub lost your tempers and started hexing everything in the room?” Draco asked with a superior raise of an eyebrow as if to dismiss the incident as deeply childish despite having ended up on the floor that particular time. “Oh yes, how could I have forgotten that _brilliant_ display of magical superiority. Next time I want a crash course in dumb luck, I’ll think I’ll just pay attention in Care of Magical Creatures while that idiot troll of yours narrowly escapes getting our heads bitten off every five minutes.”

“You leave Hagrid out of this!”, Ron bellowed in a tone that would have been decidedly more threatening had it not ended quite so squeakily. Which only incensed him further as he reached for his wand, only to be held back yet again by both Harry and Hermione, who had now risen to her feet as well.

“He’s just trying to get you in trouble, Ron.” Hermione advised as she sent a scathing look towards the young Malfoy. “Just because he hasn’t got any _real_ power of his own, he’s always running off to get other people to do his dirty work for him.”

“Yeah, you’re nothing but a COWARD, Malfoy!” Ron added, apparently warming up to this line of thinking. “Probably just practicing for when you’ll go hiding behind You-Know-Who’s robes just like your coward father.”

“In that case, I’d imagine you’d want to be a little more careful what you said around me, Weasley”, Draco replied with quiet menace, calmly appraising the situation with a practiced air. The years had taught Draco quite a bit more restraint than he had employed in years past, and he wasn’t about to let a Weasley ruffle his feathers despite that the insult had hit a little close to home for comfort. In truth, Draco wasn’t sure exactly _how_ he felt about Voldemort anymore- seeing his father pay a hypocrite mudblood wizard undying loyalty was a bit sickening at times. Not that Draco would ever _openly_ disagree with his father, but he did have his private doubts. “You might make a mistake you can’t _afford_.”

“You’re the one making a mistake, Malfoy,” Harry said in a deceptively quiet voice, though his eyes were hard as they glared at Draco relentlessly. It gave Draco the feeling he wasn’t talking about the current confrontation at all, and it was a little unnerving. Still as equally matched as ever (having both gotten just as tall just as fast, to their mutual annoyance), the two teenagers were eye to eye as they stared each other down. “I think you should go.”

“And why should I leave until I’m good and ready to? Going to sick your flea-ridden pack of Weasels and the Mudblood on me if I don’t?” Draco asked with a challenge in his voice as he folded his arms pointedly and leaned against the doorway as if he wasn’t in the least bit concerned.

“Why can’t you just leave us alone?” Came a small but indignant voice from the corner while a slightly more rational Hermione and a furious Ron again grappled for control of his wand hand (“Geroff- I’m gonna hex that foul mouth right off his smug face!” “Don’t be stupid, you’re just playing right into his games-”).

“It speaks,” Draco sneered in Ginny’s direction, ignoring the other two for the moment. “Looks like you’ve been teaching her some bad habits, Weasel. And she showed so much promise in her first year, what with all the homicidal rampages-”

This time it was Harry who drew his wand in anger, pointing it level at Draco’s chest as he took a single step towards the Slytherin that put him between Draco and the youngest Weasley who looked as if she was bravely fighting off a sudden onslaught of angry tears. “Leave. Just go, Malfoy.”

Despite not being one to ever admit to being cowed by anyone, _especially_ The Boy Who Lived To Get In His Way, Draco was certainly not stupid enough not to recognize when he was outnumbered if not outmatched. Especially without his pair of thugs, he was going to have to tread a bit more carefully this year if he wanted to make it through. Something that irked him to no end, but that didn’t make it any less true. And so instead of pulling his wand in turn and having the three other young wizards do the same, Draco calmly reached out with the hand Harry’s eyes weren’t instinctively trained on and plucked the outstretched wand from his grasp. Before Harry could react to the unexpected gesture, Draco dropped the wand into the pocket of the Gryffindor’s robe. “See you at Hogwarts,” he offered with a sardonic sneer before turning and making his grand exit back into the hall.

*******

“I hate him,” Ron said with great passion as he, Hermione, Harry and his younger sister walked up towards the grounds of Hogwarts. Placing an annoyed glare in the direction of the lake – where the first years were excitedly hopping into boats, and some splashing eachother – he then looked back to his friends, who also looked less than pleased to have had a Malfoy Experience. “He’s just a foul, childish, small-minded, hypocritical, stupid person and I _hate_ him.”

Hermione gave Ron a sympathetic smile, touching her hand to Ron’s arm. She could feel him shaking very slightly, and momentarily wondered why Malfoy felt he had to go as far as he could to wind them all up. Ron, in particular, seemed a favourite victim of Draco’s, and this gave Hermione pause. She had always thought it was perhaps because he was jealous: Draco may have a wealthy family, but Hermione could easily guess that it wasn’t a loving family, which Ron had, many times over.

“You don’t _hate_ him,” she found herself saying, which met a filthy glare from Ron, causing her to add, “I mean, you think you do. But really, you should feel sorry for him more than anything else, he doesn’t have very many-”

A cold voice came from behind them. “Talk about me often, do you Granger?” Draco had been listening to them from the train, and found himself further annoyed that, although Ron seemed to have the right idea, Harry and Hermione seemed to pity him. Well, he certainly didn’t need their pity. He would throw himself in the lake with the first years before he accepted a kind gesture from any of them.

With a suggestive tone to his voice, Draco added, “I bet you do. All the time.” And raising an eyebrow at a now once again red-faced Hermione, he brushed past her, before rather gracelessly shoving Ron out of the way as he made his way up towards the castle.

It was moments like that which infuriated Draco even further, he thought to himself. To think that a mudblood genius like Hermione Granger would feel sorry for him, when she had absolutely no reason to, made his blood boil very slightly underneath the surface. It was hardly as though she were pretty either, which was fairly irrelevant, but it would be nice to have _something_ encouraging about her. She was simple, was what she was, Draco decided, and he didn’t need simple girls pitying him.

Finding himself alone still, and that the only other Slytherins around were friends with Pansy and very unwelcome, Draco cleared his throat and wrapped his cloak around him somewhat. It was always cold in September, especially by the lake, and without a distracting source of entertainment Draco could feel the cold air rushing past him as sharp as a knife. Suddenly, the despair that had been threatening to take over felt like it just might. He really was alone this year, and was going to have to be as strong as he possibly could to defeat any enemies that may come along.

That was, additional enemies. His father’s words now echoed in his head – _“I want you to be careful this year. There will be less support for you and the other Slytherins…”_ and Draco gave a loud, obvious sigh. He was most definitely, completely and utterly, not happy.

*******

The great hall was richly decorated as usual, strewn with hundreds of floating candles and glittering garland that sparkled with every color of the rainbow underneath the bewitched ceiling which shimmered clear and bright with stars that had slowly emerged in the darkening sky as night fell. The handful of first years clustered near the door gawked openly at it as if it was the most amazing thing they had ever seen in all their short lives. And for most of them, Draco mused, it probably was. To Draco, and any suitably cultured wizard, it was little more than a flashy parlor trick, having become accustomed to the formal ballroom in Malfoy Manor having much the same effect ever since he could remember. There was a time when he was a small boy that he had thought it to be quite beautiful, and would often sneak into the vast chamber late at night when it was darkened and deserted simply to stare up at it in childlike wonder and feel very, very small. But that was until one of the meddling house elves had seen fit to inform his father of his nighttime excursions. The elder Malfoy then kindly decided that if Draco liked the sky so much, he could sleep out under the real one for the rest of the month. With said month being January, Draco had become disenchanted with the sky rather quickly.

The drone of voices subsided into a quiet buzz, and finally hushed as Professor McGonagall, wearing a severe expression as usual, strode onto the center of the floor and placed the old and tattered Sorting Hat upon a stool. The trembling first years, who no doubt had been fed a load of terrifying lies concerning the sorting process, first sagged with relief and then stared with eyes as wide as saucer plates while the hat sprung to life and set off on some lame song extolling its own virtues. Five years now, Draco thought with great boredom, five years of sitting through an increasingly tedious epic poem and waiting while it went through the entire procession of jumpy preadolescents and told them their fate. At least there was some consolation in that the line was considerably shorter than it had been in years past. And it was no surprise that an overwhelming majority of them were sorted into Gryffindor, if you considered five a majority, which Draco didn’t, with Ravenclaw coming in second with three brats, and Hufflepuff with two. Slytherin came in dead last with only a single new recruit: a wide-eyed little blonde waif of a girl (“Thompson, Mary Sue”) who promptly burst into tears when the sorting had called out “SLYTHERIN” as if it had just announced that she was going to be boiled in a vat of hot oil. Honestly. Draco rolled his eyes as she took the seat that he had strategically placed between himself and Pansy the Prefect even though nearly half of the long table was completely deserted, after which the girl immediately set to staring at him with lovesick eyes for the remainder of the evening. Clearly, the Sorting Hat had done this specifically to punish him.

In his abject misery, Draco found his gaze drifting over to the full Gryffindor table that was noisily welcoming its new members as if they had just won the House Cup. Pathetic. Potter was wearing that irksome faux modest expression, as if he really couldn’t understand why all five of the children were clamoring to sit at his end of the table and gibbering excitedly at him. _‘Why yes, I_ am _Harry Potter- yes, THE, Harry Potter,_ ’ Draco mentally supplied the words his nemesis surely must be sputtering with ‘embarrassment’ at the moment, pretending that he didn’t love every moment of the completely unwarranted attention. _‘Oh I’m really nothing special, really- want to see my scar?’_   All that fuss for something he got by staring stupidly up at Lord Voldemort and shaking his rattle. Or maybe Draco was giving him too much credit. He probably just screamed and wet his nappy instead. A hush had fallen over the Great Hall again, causing Draco to let his attention drift back to the raised table at the front of the room from which the president of the Harry Potter fanclub had just pushed his chair back and risen slowly to his feet. All of the Gryffindors gazed lovingly up at their completely daft and senile old headmaster as he cleared his throat and began to speak.

“Yes, yes, welcome, all of our newest additions. We are certainly quite pleased to see all of you here amidst the rather difficult times that seem to have fallen upon us all. Now, I do have a few announcements to make before we all can commence in partaking of a truly excellent feast. As I’m sure all of you know, our noble and beloved pastime was forgone last year in light of the tragedy that befell us all when we lost one of our own following the unfortunate events of the TriWizard Tournament. It is with great regret that I must announce it appears Quidditch will be cancelled once again this year, as I have just been informed by the lovely Ms. Sprout that the members of the Hufflepuff House have most honorably decided to abstain from the sport once more this year in memory of their fallen comrade, Cedric Diggory, who is still dearly missed. Due to the unforeseen depletion of students in all of the houses, I’m afraid there will not be enough students to fill all of the remaining teams and continue with the games as planned. My deepest apologies to those of you who are no doubt sorely disappointed by the news.”

Draco was absolutely horrified. He was showing definite signs of being one of the sorely disappointed that Dumbledore had mentioned in his speech, and he made absolutely no secret of it as he choked on nothing, perhaps just a sharp intake of breath. Ignoring what he was sure was an amused look from Dumbledore, Draco folded his arms firmly across his chest and scowled, determined to fight his case as soon as he had some food inside him.

They hadn’t taken part in any Quidditch games last year, which had been bad enough in Draco’s opinion. He had simply assumed that the game would be returning to Hogwarts this year, as it was such an honoured and enjoyed pastime. Not to mention ruthless, and a very good excuse to try and knock Harry down a peg or two. If this meant literally knocking him off his broom, so be it. Draco was willing to make sacrifices. This new development, however, that there was to be no tournament for a second time, was enough to make Draco want to either burst in angry tears (not that he would ever admit it) or break something expensive, especially due to his specific circumstances.

It just couldn’t get much worse than this, really. Pansy had also noticed his inner irritation, which was rapidly turning into _outer_ irritation, and reached across to place a sympathetic hand on said arms, which he quickly brushed off.

“Poor Draco,” she whispered sensitively and the little girl sitting beside him immediately looked interested. His name seemed a gem of information to her, and she turned to Pansy and said something very quietly that Draco couldn’t hear. Pansy started whispering once again, animatedly and excitedly to the girl.

Draco sighed heavily, not least because Dumbledore was talking again, and at great length. “I’d like to take a moment now to acknowledge our new teachers this year. We have one truly great professor returning to teach Defense Of The Dark Arts. He was missed terribly when he left us not so long ago – although I myself admit it seems like far too long.” Pointing in the direction of his old friend, he then says simply by means of introduction, “Professor Lupin, my dears.”

Lupin grinned at the students in the halls, who, led by Harry (Draco simply narrowed his eyes), gave a loud round of applause. Somebody – Ron, more than likely – gave a loud whoop.

But that was nothing in comparison to the next member of staff introduced, who was going to assist Lupin in the more practical elements of his subject. Draco couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the man before, sitting beside Lupin and grinning also, his smile reminding Draco of a Cheshire Cat that had swallowed a large quantity of light bulbs or neon poster paint.

Sirius Black.

Dumbledore was in the midst of introducing him now, and while some students looked rather scared, despite the fact that he had been cleared of all charges last year, the majority looked thrilled. Some girls were blushing, some swooning, and others just staring, open mouthed. Harry was sharing a similar lightbulb-grin moment as he led the entire Gryffindor table to rise to their feet in a disgustingly moving standing ovation, and Draco scowled further. This was pathetic. A bloody family reunion.

When Sirius rose to his feet to give an elegant bow, causing a great number of distinctly female giggles to resonate through the din, Draco could see that possibly the only other person in the hall looking less than pleased at the idiotic display was seated quite unhappily to the right of the joyful new professors and looking as if he had just swallowed a particularly nasty every-flavour bean. As if he could feel the disgruntled eyes trying their best to burn a hole in his back or perhaps even reduce the man to cinders, Sirius turned and flashed an even wider grin at Professor Snape whose glower then darkened by several degrees. Perhaps it was just Draco’s imagination, but for a moment it seemed highly likely that the former criminal had, along with the smile, also flashed the other professor a rather rude gesture from where his hands were obscured by the table before he then sat down abruptly as if dealt a disapproving kick from his friend on the left. Snape’s lip curled into a bloodless snarl of utter disdain as he regarded the man beside him, meanwhile the Gryffindors returned to their seats and the feast began.

Draco, however, found that he had rather lost his appetite even as delicious food was popping up all over the table. It wasn’t fair- it just wasn’t fair. As if it wasn’t bad _enough_ that he was practically the only Slytherin in the school- well, the only one that _mattered_ , anyway, surrounded entirely by the entire bloody Gryffindor dynasty, now he wouldn’t even get to vent his frustration at the whole idiotic, unjust world by finally pounding Potter into the ground at Quidditch. The sport had been the single upside to having been sentenced to another year at this archaic prison on an increasingly lengthy list of reasons why he loathed this place. And right now he loathed those disgraceful Hufflepuffs most of all- carrying on like a pack of wailing widows over a year since they had lost a single member of their sniveling pack. He wanted to grab the little idiots by the shoulders and shake them until they realized that this was life, and people die- probably a lot more were going to in the near future if all the clandestine meetings his father had been holding in the dungeons all summer were any indication, and that whining and moping and making the whole world stop because of it wasn’t going to bring that person back. Privately, Draco thought they were just being spiteful and obstinate because everyone knew Hufflepuff always lost at Quidditch anyway. Oh what a wonderful tribute to Diggory this was, to make the entire student body miserable in his memory. Honestly.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”, a small voice asked from his side, and he looked down to see the little girl gazing up at him in misty-eyed concern. From the way Pansy was tittering encouragingly, clearly she had put the child up to it. Scowling at them both, Draco kept his arms folded as he pushed his chair back from the table pointedly.

“No,” he directed at Pansy, ignoring the aggravating girl who seemed entirely too young to be a student (her feet didn’t even reach the floor!). “I’m not hungry. In fact,” Draco added with a petulant glare in the direction of the faculty table, “I don’t think I’ll ever eat again. Do you think the entire school will make complete idiots out of themselves over _me_ when I _starve_ to death in protest?”

“Oh Draco, I know it’s horrible that those inept little crybabies have ruined Quidditch for you,” Pansy over-sympathized while the little girl gazed up at him in open mouthed tragedy at the very idea of him nobly wasting away. “But it’s not as if we really have enough students to fill a team anyway, and besides, at least this way the Gryffindors don’t get to play either.”

She did have a point. If Draco had been forced to remain grounded while Potter and his merry hangers-on got to enjoy the sport all year, he just might have exploded like a Filibuster firework. But it wasn’t as if that made this any better, especially with Potter and the Gryffindorks chattering away excitedly between cramming their mouths full of food, obviously not the least bit put off by the news. And why would they be? _They_ were probably going to have one of the best terms of their hopefully short lives. “Pansy, _darling_ ,” Draco drawled in a faux caring tone that was perhaps his most menacing of all, “whatever gave you the idea I was actually interested in hearing your opinion?”

Shaking her head as Draco proceeded to rise from the table and stalk from the Great Hall, Pansy informed the new Slytherin who, if possible, now looked even more smitten than ever, “Don’t mind him, he’s just cranky about Quidditch being cancelled. He’s the best Seeker in Hogwarts, you know. Even if he does always lose to Harry Potter- it’s only because the games are rigged.”

Across the hall at the merry Gryffindor table, the histrionics of a certain Slytherin caught at least one pair of eyes even before the haughty boy stormed out. “What’s eating him, I wonder-” Hermione mused aloud as she set her oversized glass of butterbeer down on the table.

“It’s _Malfoy_ ,” Ron pointed out, rolling his eyes in disgust. “Who cares? He’s probably just mad because everyone else is happy for once.”

“It’s probably Quidditch,” Harry interjected as he turned to them from finishing an enthusiastic description to a rapt Dean and Seamus of getting to fly Sirius’ enchanted motorbike to Diagon Alley the week before. “I guess he didn’t know that it was going to be cancelled again this year.”

“Serves him right,” Ron groused bad temperedly, “I bet he doesn’t even really _like_ Quidditch all that much. He just likes trying to show you up all the time. Too bad you won’t get to stomp the ferret down again this year, eh Harry?”

“Ron, honestly,” Hermione shook her head at her best friend’s not even remotely concealed gloating at another’s pain, even if it _was_ Malfoy. “Don’t you even feel the _slightest_ bit bad for him? It’s not as if he’s even got any friends.”

“Well that’s not my problem, is it? Maybe he would if he wasn’t such a slimy git all the time, walking around with that expensive wand shoved up his-”

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione cut him off with a chastising look. “Mind your language around the first years.”

“Sorry ‘Mione,” Ron apologized around a mouthful of bread. “Forgot you’re a Prefect this year. Hey,” he brightened as he swallowed, “now you can take points from Slytherin every time that arrogant git bully decides to give us a hard time!”

“Well, maybe not _every_ time,” Hermione mused, before a sharp voice from behind them made her aware that a shadow had been cast over them for several moments.

“Preparing for a promising career in the Department of Sticking Your Crooked Nose Where It Doesn’t Belong at the Ministry, Granger?” Draco, who had paused by the table on his way to the door, sneered in the direction of a first startled and then fuming Hermione. “Maybe you can give the Arch-Weasel a few pointers, I hear he’s having a pretty sorry go of it these days-”

Draco was cut off by a simultaneous chorus of, “I do _not_ have a crooked nose”, “My dad is doing a GREAT job, you lousy-”, and “Leave off, Malfoy”, from the three suddenly very irritated Gryffindors before him.

“Don’t you have anything better to do, Malfoy?” Harry asked wearily as he turned in his seat to look at the other boy, his hand clenched around a fork in ire.

“I bet he hasn’t,” Ron nettled, glaring at the blonde in utter contempt as ruddy spots of anger flushed his cheeks.

Draco simply rolled his eyes. Of course, it was true – he really didn’t have anything better to do. Annoying the Potter People was amongst his favourite pastimes, and seeing as all his _other_ hobbies had just flown out of the window (the irony of this statement was not lost on him, as flying was something he certainly would not be doing) Draco was hard pushed to retaliate from this question for a moment.

Finally, he glanced over to the staff table and, giving a little more pause for effect, he said, “Actually… I do.” And with that, he marched in the direction of the large team of wizard staff. If he had turned around to look at Harry’s face, he would have seen a rather bewildered expression.

But he definitely heard Harry stand from his seat, and warn, “Leave Sirius alone, Malfoy.” This caused Draco to turn around, give Harry a sneering smirk and laugh rather sharply. Harry simply frowned angrily, his arms folded. “I mean it, Malfoy. Don’t you dare go near him.”

“I have more pressing issues at hand,” Draco drawled effortlessly, “than your pathetic godfather and what I am most sure will be equally pathetic Dark Arts lessons. Although, I suppose with a _murderer_ teac-”

But he could get no further, as Harry had bolted for him, too quickly for even Hermione and Ron to stop him, although he inwardly doubted Ron would have done a thing. Before Draco knew it, Harry had hauled him to the ground, and it was all a bit of a blur. And then –

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

It was Professor McGonagall, head of the Gryffindor house, eyes flashing and looking extremely angry. It was no surprise, really: the scene in front of her now displayed a pale Draco, Harry’s fist about five millimeters from his face, Ron hurtling up behind and grinning (not anymore though – he was rather scared of McGonagall), and Hermione looking terribly worried.

Harry and Draco both started talking at once – “He attacked me first!” “He was insulting Sirius!” “I was not!!” “You were too-“ “I was simply stating the facts, Potter, and if you can't hand-”

“ENOUGH,” McGonagall now said, simply, wishing she hadn’t bothered to ask. All she had gathered were that both boys, although physically changed, had not grown up in the slightest when it came to dealing with each other. They were still the same quarreling eleven year olds that they had been when they started Hogwarts. Shaking her head slightly, McGonagall gave a tired sigh.

“I do not expect fighting on the _first day back_ ,” she said, a strict tone in her voice that caused both Draco and Harry to look rather embarrassed – they had drawn quite a crowd, and were now being suitably embarrassed in front of it, “especially not from you, Harry. Five points from both houses for such disappointing and childish behavior.”

Draco didn’t know whether to grin pointedly at Harry, or feel very annoyed that McGonagall seemed to expect fighting from _him_. Instead he just neatened his hair with his hand and continued to look steadily at the floor, his eyes glaring at one particular spot. But then he realised the angry professor was looking at him, and she said, “Draco – I think it would be best if you went down to the common room early, don’t you?”

Looking absolutely disgusted, Draco fought off the urge to say something biting along the lines of that being what he was trying to do in the _first_ place, and nodded, shooting a glare at Harry as he stomped off out of the Great Hall. Harry simply smiled, and that made it all the more annoying. Draco decided McGonagall had better have some kind of punishment for him, too.


	2. Misery Loves Company (but Malfoys detest both)

In retrospect, Draco supposed he really shouldn't have been surprised that his first class of the new term was not only advanced level Defense Against the Dark Arts, but that it was also with Gryffindor.  Even when he had returned to the dungeons the night before to discover that apparently he had the entire sixth year boys dormitory room to himself (a minor reward for his troubles, as far as he was concerned), the reality of just how very outnumbered he was this year had not fully dawned upon him until just then as he sat, slumped down in his seat with his arms folded, amongst the three only other Slytherins in his year: Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, and Tracey Davis (another of Pansy's cronies that he had never bothered to associate with). The rest of the room was packed with all ten of the sixth year Gryffindors, gibbering on excitedly to one another at how _thrilled_ they were with their new professors and how they just couldn't _wait_ to start on their lessons.

All of them seemed to have conveniently forgotten that said professors were a werewolf and a convicted murderer (so what if he _had_ been cleared of all charges? Twelve years in Azkaban would be enough to drive anyone completely loony even if they weren't already).  Besides, Draco happened to be one of the few who hadn't been terribly heartbroken when Professor Lupine had left in shame after their third year. Even though the man was admittedly a much better teacher than that raving lunatic that had replaced him the year following, Draco for one hadn't appreciated the inane activities the nutty professor had put them through such as pitting them against children's monsters like Boggarts, Red Caps, and Grindylows. And that unnervingly thoughtful look the man had scrutinized him with after the Boggart had turned into the dark mark when Draco faced it had made him dislike the professor even more.

The din of the chattering students subsided into the hush of anticipation as the door to the classroom swung open, and in walked first the dark haired Sirius Black, strolling in as if he had redefined the term 'fashionably late', followed by the slightly more hurried and considerably paler Remus Lupin who was toting a satchel bulging with various things that he dropped onto the desk at the front of the room. "Pardon our lateness, we got a bit waylaid on the walk over-"

"Your friendly Potions master was giving us a few helpful tips on how to do our jobs," Sirius grumbled dryly, flashing an unapologetic grin at the students as several of them laughed. To Draco's horror, one of the laughs actually came from beside him. As he looked to his right, all three of the Slytherin girls were rapt with the most ridiculous expressions on their faces as the taller man took a seat quite unprofessionally _on_ the desk while the other professor shook his head, rifling through the bag for something. "Yes, Hermione?", Sirius addressed the Gryffindor seated in the first row as her hand shot up.

"Siri- I mean, Professor Black," Hermione had the grace to blush somewhat at her mistake as the two other inevitable teacher's pets beside her both grinned a bit at her blunder. Obviously the three of them were going to have a hard time getting used to seeing Harry's godfather as a professor, especially since the two sidekicks had spent the last part of the summer _staying at his house_ with their friend. But of course, no favoritism there. Honestly. This was a nightmare."Sorry. I was just wondering, will both of you be teaching the classes together or will you be- trading off, I suppose?"

"Good question-" the man mused in such a way that it was obvious he hadn't given the matter much thought beforehand and therefore hadn't the slightest idea, and so he added instead, "but call me Sirius. Professor Black sounds so-"

"Refined?" Lupin offered helpfully as he placed a stack of books and papers he had removed from the bag onto the large oak desk.

"Actually, I was going to go with _old_ ," Sirius replied with a bit of a mischievous grin that made him look anything but, and Draco could have sworn he heard an audible collective _sigh_ from not only the girls beside him, but the entire female population in the room. Rolling his eyes, Draco could only hope that they would be teaching them the killing curse that day so he could put himself out of his misery.

Lupin smiled slightly at Sirius, fully aware of the girls in the class and the attention they were giving their new teacher – and not himself. Sirius had been a ladies man in the past, it was true, and it seemed he had as much influence over sixteen year old girls as gravity had had over Newton’s apple experiment. Lupin didn’t mind, however. He was happy to sit back and allow Sirius to get all the attention, while he got along and taught the class. So long as the other teacher pulled his weight from time to time. 

“As far as I know,” Lupin spoke now, addressing Hermione’s question, “Sirius and myself will be teaching separate parts of this class. I shall be teaching you the theory of the Dark Arts, and Sirius shall implement the theory. For example, imagine that instead of myself helping you with the Boggart the last year I taught, Sirius did.” 

Many girls in the class sighed thoughtfully, evidently quite pleased with picturing the given scenario. Draco was even more disturbed. Dumbledore was clearly off his rocker, hiring an ex-convict. Draco mused that Dumbledore probably fancied him, after all, he’d always been a bit of a funny old man, and that was when Draco put it nicely. He often didn’t bother to put things nicely, but he supposed he should practice keeping himself to himself, seeing as he was all alone. All alone with Sirius Black and the Harry Potter Fan Club on his back.  

He wondered if it were simply bad luck that Slytherin was always placed in classes with Gryffindor, but realistically Draco was certain it had something to do with Professor Dumbledore again. The old headmaster seemed to think he was wise beyond his years (which Draco thought was a heap of rubbish and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about), and liked to do things that irritated Slytherin as much as possible. This whole school seemed to have it in for Slytherin House.  

Lupin was now explaining the plan for today’s class. Sirius, however, was just grinning and making stupid jokes. Draco didn’t think they were funny. At all. The rest of the class seemed to have quite the opposite opinion. _Bloody Sirius bloody murderer Black,_ thought Draco. _What a complete idiot._  

“Draco,” came Sirius’ voice now, and Draco could just see what was coming. “If you must stare off into space as often as you do, perhaps you could hurtle off on a rocket and take yourself to the moon to do it?” The class tittered, and Draco threw a horrified glare at all of them, saving his most disgusted look for Sirius.  

This was too much. It was just too much. Before he could hold back the words, Draco retorted, “I’d rather be on a space rocket than stuck in a classroom with an ex-convict. Remind us why you were in Azkaban again, _Professor_ _Black_.”  
  
The rest of the class looked fairly shocked, and Harry, Ron and Hermione had aghast, angry expressions on their faces. Draco could tell that Harry wanted to remove himself from his seat and hit Draco over the head with it, but he kept silent and looked at Sirius, who was also quiet, and seemed to be considering this comment.  

“Mr. Malfoy, perhaps you’d like to excuse yourself…” Lupin had started to speak, but Sirius cut him off quickly. 

“No, it’s okay, Remus.” Sirius’ eyes flickered briefly to his old friend, faltering in professionalism briefly to address him, and then traveled back towards Draco who stared him steadily in the face. “Draco is entitled to his own opinion, as misguided as it may be.” Draco could almost see Sirius fighting off the urge to say something about his father, and he mentally dared him to bring up that line of conversation. “Let’s continue with the lesson. I believe you were telling us about your plans, Professor Lupin.” 

Lupin cleared his throat slightly and glanced at Draco, who raised an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, quite. Today will be mostly a lesson on the theory of Dark Arts, and I’m afraid it won’t be particularly interesting. We’re going to have to delve a little into the history of vampirism-“ Hermione looked excited. “-as next lesson I am hoping to bring in a vampire bat, who belongs to a friend of mine, for us to study. Vampires will be quite a heavy focus of your exams this year, so pay attention.” 

Sirius started handing out thick books (Ron groaned as his was placed on the table, only smiling a little as Sirius winked at him) to the class as Lupin started over to the board, asking students to mention everything they knew about vampires for a brainstorm.  

Away from the shouts of, “Dracula!” “They drink blood, don’t they?” and “Really pale skin-”, Sirius had approached Draco’s desk, where he placed the book down softly and leaned in as he whispered, “We’re going to have to learn to get along, Draco.” 

Draco just glared back, and didn’t say a word, forcing Sirius to move along with the books.

*******

"I can't believe he would speak that way to a professor. How- I can't even think of a word, of all the horrible-" Hermione was saying as they walked down the hall following their first class, which had progressed rather uneventfully after the brief clash of wills near the beginning that nobody could seem to stop talking about. Least of all Hermione, who was just appalled.

"Well it's _Malfoy_ , what do you expect? Bet you don't feel so sorry for him now, huh Herm?" Ron couldn't seem to help but grin, always feeling much better about his day when Malfoy got himself into trouble even if it was by insulting someone that Ron respected greatly, which it seemed he had since Professor Lupin had asked Draco to stay behind and speak to him after class. Maybe the git would have to serve detention on his first day- an idea that was enough to make Ron positively giddy.

"Oh shut up, Ron," Hermione said with a disgruntled look in Ron's direction, loathe to admit when she had been wrong about something, which was almost never. Her attention was turned then to her friend on the other side of Ron, who hadn't said so much as a word since class had ended and had now ceased walking. "Harry, are you alright?"

"Yeah- you guys go on ahead. I think I'm just going to wait here for a minute." Though his voice was quiet, Hermione could see that he was still positively white with rage. She knew exactly why he wanted to wait, and it wasn't to talk to Sirius. No good could possibly come of this.

"I really don't think that's such a good idea, Harry. You're going to be late for advanced Transfiguration, and you know how Professor McGonagall-"

"I'll catch up with you later." Harry's voice had that determined edge to it that he got when he had made up his mind to do something and there was nothing she could possibly say to talk him out of it.

"Come on Harry, if you're gonna pound Malfoy you have to let us watch!" Ron enthused, not looking the least bit as concerned as Hermione.

"No one's going to be pounding anybody. Harry already lost us five points yesterday, and he's _not_ about to go and risk even more, _are_ you Harry?" But Hermione already knew that her stern look was lost on him even as he shook his head.

"I just want to talk to him. We're not going to fight, Hermione, I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep. Since when have the two of you ever managed to carry on a civilized conversation in the past five years without one or both of you ending up in detention?"

"This is different," Harry insisted, even though he knew it wasn't really. He had never wanted to attack Malfoy more in all his years at Hogwarts. "I'll see you guys next period." His tone was final.

"Alright but you owe us details!" With a glance to the far less agreeable Hermione, Ron amended, "well, maybe just me then. Knock 'im dead, Harry!" Ron grinned as he then caught a still protesting Hermione by the sleeve of her robe and tugged her off down the hallway, heard insisting as he went, "Oh come on Hermione, it was just a figure of speech! He's not really going to kill him, not that anyone would mind-"

"Ron! That's a horrible thing to say!"

*******

Draco closed the door to the classroom behind him rather carefully, considering the foul mood he was in. He should have expected that Professor Lupin would take the considerate route to discipline, and the professor hadn’t even raised his voice louder than his general conversational tone. The dialogue hadn’t even been particularly stern either, Draco mused to himself. Just a long and boring lecture about how he was expected to treat professors with respect at all times regardless of any personal prejudices. Well, he certainly held ‘personal prejudices’ against Sirius Black. Draco tended to get rather personal around murderers-turned-supermodel-love-god-to-all-girls, after all.

Lupin had (finally) concluded that he wouldn’t take any points from Slytherin this time, but advised Draco to watch his mouth in the near future. Draco had been surprised at his own tolerance, and he had actually managed to leave without a scathing comment about werewolves, teaching or Lupin’s horrid – and clearly secondhand – robes.

This left him rather proud of himself (and led him to briefly wonder if he were coming down with something), and he now started away from the classroom silently, taking a quick glance back at the door. Staring back briefly, he then felt his body bump into somebody else’s.

“Oh, sor-“ He stopped before he could finish his apology as he saw _who_ he had bumped into. Inwardly his mood brightened at the opportunity to make someone else feel  as miserable as he was right now. And it was just his luck that said someone else happened to be none other than- “What do you want, Potter?,” Draco sneered. “Come to kiss up to the werewolf? Or maybe you were waiting to gain tips on how to cover up dead bodies from your Godfather. Or maybe-”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. His tone was less threatening than it was demanding. Draco raised his eyebrow, finding himself just slightly amused that Harry Potter was daring to give him orders as if the past five years had taught him nothing. “I want to talk to you.”

Draco rolled his eyes very slightly, looking around the corridor briefly for a glimpse of a familiar face, perhaps a teacher. It wasn’t that he was scared of Harry, but this would be a brilliant way to get Harry in even more trouble than he himself was. Draco was prepared to play scared if it meant some sweet, much enjoyed revenge. Besides, Harry really should have realized by now that without anything better to do, riling him up had become Draco's favorite sport and only source of much needed entertainment. “Really?” he said finally, the tone of his voice conveying anything but surprise. “And what on the great round Earth might that be about?”

This seemed to anger Harry more, and Draco wondered with a mental smirk if he had ever seen anybody’s eyes quite that wide and glaring, even from behind his glasses. “I think you know. Sirius, Malfoy. Why do you have to give him such a hard time?”

“Let me think.” Draco paused for effect, and found that he was rather enjoying this conversation. He was sure this wasn’t Harry’s intent, but Draco wasn’t really auditioning for the part of his best friend or anything, so he couldn’t say it bothered him in the slightest. “Well… if I remember correctly, didn’t he spend twelve years in Azkaban after inadvertently murdering your parents? If I were you, Potter, I’d be the one giving him a hard time.”

“He was cleared of charges!” Harry exclaimed, utterly disgusted. He was actually taken aback: Malfoy couldn’t have meant this. He was surely just trying to wind Harry up, because everybody in the wizarding world _knew_ Sirius had been cleared, and knew he had next to nothing to do with James  & Lily Potter’s tragic death. “He didn’t do anything, Malfoy, and you know it! Besides, even if he did, I'm the only one here who has a right to hate him, and I don't. So leave him alone.”

“So what? What are you going to do about it if I don’t 'leave him alone'?”

Harry eyed him glaringly. “I think you know.”

Sighing heavily with what appeared to be boredom, Draco glared back at Harry, his eyebrow arched even higher (if it were possible) than before. This was getting sad now, here was Harry threatening to kill him. Or something similar, Draco couldn’t be quite sure just how adventurous the boy opposite him was feeling, and nor did he really care very much. “Potter, I would really like to see you try and hurt me. It would quite possibly make me the happiest man on-”

But before he had a chance to finish his sentence, Harry had once again lunged for the other boy. Draco fell backwards into the wall, but was soon back on form, swiftly allowing his fist to make contact with Harry’s nose. When he pulled his hand back, it was covered in a light trickle of blood, as was the lower half of Harry’s face. Harry, however, didn’t falter for long, and he jumped back towards Draco quickly, almost happy to have an uninterrupted moment where he could perhaps deform that ugly smile that always seemed to taunt him.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Draco knew that sinister drawl better than any other, and he couldn’t have been happier to hear it. It seemed his wish to get Harry in trouble may have in fact come true, and as Professor Snape stood before the both of them, he subtly tried to messy his hair a bit more to give the impression than Harry had played very, very rough. Even if Harry was the one dripping blood on his robes- it was just Draco’s luck, for once, that they had been interrupted by the one Professor that would be willing to look past that and still find a way to blame it on the other boy.

Glancing at Harry, Draco tried to stop from smirking. Said other boy looked an interesting mixture of horrified, angry and what Draco decided might be a trace of fear. Well, that was good. _Let Snape put the stupid bastard in his place._

Snape seemed to be on the verge of a grim smile also, and he looked over the scene carefully. “Fighting in the very midst of the corridors where teachers walk,” he started, “is not a very clever idea, Mr. Potter.” Harry’s mouth dropped slightly, and Draco just stood there. He would have thought by now that Harry would realise Snape would place blame on him rather than Draco any day. It was just the luck of being so darn wonderful, Draco mused.

“Then maybe you should tell Malfoy that,” Harry was saying now. “He was the one who started it.”

“Your maturity never fails to amaze me, Potter,” Snape replied, his expression rather seething. He really couldn’t tolerate the boy, Draco decided, and now his smirk became more noticeable as he looked up to his House Head. It was no secret how much Snape detested Harry, though sometimes Draco wondered why. At times like this, it seemed as if there might be more to the utter loathing flashing in the professor's eyes than simply being annoyed by Harry's hero complex.  “Speaking like a five year old _and_ starting a fight, all in one day."

"I told you, I didn't start anything," Harry responded with a barely concealed disgust that nearly matched the Professor's own, though not nearly as reserved, being the brash young hero type that he was. "Malfoy started it when he started spouting off about Siri- a  professor," Harry seemed to realize that he had made a mistake by mentioning the offended party's name, but his attempts to cover it up only caused the potion's master eyes to glint with something indefinable.

"Is that _so_?" Professor Snape turned his glinting eyes upon Draco, who put his most injured expression on as he responded.

"Black insulted me first, Professor. He tried to make some ridiculous joke at my expense in front of the entire class. If he's not going to be professional, I don't see why I should be expected to, either."

"An excellent point, Mr. Malfoy." Draco realized Snape had not been looking at him at all, but had trained his glittering eyes hatefully upon Harry the entire time Draco had been speaking. "Fifteen points from Gryffindor-" Harry gaped at him. Apparently he was surprised now. “-which will be given to Slytherin for exercising impeccable judgment of character.”

The smirk failed to fight against a grin now, and Draco looked sideways at Harry, and waited for his argument. It didn’t come: Harry simply shook his head, and walked away from Snape and Draco.

 _Well_ , thought Draco, _how boring._

***

By the end of the day, Draco had gone to bed convinced his life could not get any worse. By the end of the week, Draco readily admitted that he had been wrong. So far his classes had been nothing but consummate disasters:  in double Potions he was partnered with none other than Pansy Parkinson for lack of a more suitable partner (which was really saying something);  in Arithmancy that daft Professor Figg woman who had arrived their fifth year let her cat have the run of the classroom and it had promptly settled itself on his desk and stared at him the rest of the lesson in-between batting at his quill whenever he was in the middle of an important calculation; in Care of Magical Creatures, that idiot gamekeeper the Potter bunch seemed so fond of had presented them with a box of Mackled Malaclaws, horrid lobster looking things with giant pinchers (“Yeh don’t hafta worry about nothing so long as yeh keep away from ‘is maw. If ‘e gets ahold of yeh, yeh’ll be a mite unlucky for about a week or so”), one of which had promptly attached itself to Draco’s leg by the end of the first lesson. Draco supposed said event was only partially responsible for the next Defense Against the Dark Arts class in which that rabid vampire bat of Lupin’s had launched itself at Draco’s neck (Sirius, Draco insisted, was responsible for the other part as he was convinced the savage had released it in his direction on purpose). And as if all that weren’t enough, little Mary Sue Slytherin had taken to stalking him around the halls between classes and insisting on carrying his books, having been shamelessly encouraged by Pansy and her fellow irritating wenches who thought it was simply hilarious.

And so it was no surprise that in his desperation Draco had taken to blaming everything that was wrong with his life given his current situation on the lack of the one activity that might have been suitable diverting, and made it his current mission in said life to make everyone around him as miserable as humanly possible by complaining quite loudly. And constantly. Especially to every professor that was unlucky enough to cross his path. He had also taken to making a dramatic display out of launching a formal hunger strike and refusing to so much as eat a bite at any of the meals during which he would sit pointedly at the Slytherin table with folded arms. Of course, by the second day he was rather hungry and had persuaded his newest groupie (at least she was good for _something_ ) to pilfer food from the kitchen for him on a nightly basis so he wasn’t _starving_ in the strictest sense of the word, but his theatrics still managed to have at least something of the intended impact as all of the members of the staff were getting quite sick of him by the middle of the second week. Potter and his friends clearly found his behavior to be exasperating though at times they almost seemed inwardly amused, something Draco would have taken issue with had he not been so ‘faint with hunger’.

It was on Wednesday of the second week that it finally happened.

Draco had been once again about to feign a hunger attack in the dining room, when his best efforts to look pale and drawn were interrupted (quite rudely, he felt) by a distinct, and recognizable, clearing of throats. In particular, the throat of Dumbledore. Draco sighed, wondered briefly what the old quack wanted this time, and slumped down in his seat as though in protest, folding his arms firmly across his chest.

“Students.” The ancient headmaster gained the attention of the majority of the hall, but for those who did not hear, he once more cleared his throat, raising his voice slightly as he called, “Students, please. I have a very important announcement to make.” Draco raised an eyebrow. He probably just wanted to let everyone know that he had changed his favourite snack to dried prunes. In fact, Draco decided, he did not care in the slightest, and so he rose to his feet.

“Mr. Malfoy – I think this news will benefit you particularly, if you would like to sit down.” Draco paused. What was that supposed to mean? Carefully eying Dumbledore for the briefest of moments, he then decided that he might as well sit back down. He had little else to do, after all, and was worried he might be making a bit of a spectacle of himself. And not in a good way.

Professor Dumbledore gave a wise smile (Draco wondered how Dumbledore always managed to look both wise and insane at the same time) before continuing. “I seem to recall that some members of the student body were – quite disappointed to know that Quidditch has been cancelled this year.” Draco scowled pointedly. “Yes, thank you Mr. Malfoy.”

 _How does he manage to_ see _these things?_ Draco wondered with a frown. _It’s like he’s…psychic. Or perceptive. Or just extremely annoying._

“Anyway, let me continue. Because of the vast amount of protest,” and at this it seemed that half the hall looked pointedly at Draco,  “Madam Hooch, myself, and the rest of the faculty here at Hogwarts have come to a very fair, and what I expect to be very interesting, conclusion. Quidditch will be returning this year, my dear students.” Draco perked up considerably. “But with some slight alterations to make the teams even.” Dumbledore now turned to Madam Hooch, who had appeared beside him. “I will now let our wonderful Quidditch instructor explain the new terms.”

Hooch went on to explain, much to Draco’s interest, how Quidditch would now work. It seemed that because Hufflepuff had dropped out and there were hardly any Slytherin members, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw would be the two main teams. Anyone from Slytherin who wanted to play would have to join either team. Draco had raised an eyebrow at this – clearly he would be joining Ravenclaw, as there was no way he would tolerate playing on the same team as Harry and his Merry Women. Well, he could hardly be expected to accept Ron Weasley as a _man_ , after all.

After the teams were split up and worked out by their captains, apparently there would also be an appointed co-captain to help manage the extra players, the tournament would commence as normal, except there would be only five games. The winner of the Quidditch Cup would have the points split between the houses that played on the team. Draco mused that this would probably work out very well for Slytherin no matter what the outcome was.

This, thought Draco, was all very interesting.

Madam Hooch had stepped down now, and the hall was bustling full of students gossiping. Draco was almost certain he saw Harry and company glance over at the Slytherin table for a moment, but yet he could not help but continue to smirk very slightly. Perhaps this year would not be entirely as awful as he had first thought. At least he had Quidditch back, be it with slightly different rules. Draco smiled once more and, as though by some miracle, started reaching for a large platter of chicken wings.

He suddenly felt like eating.

***

“Look at Malfoy,” Ron commented from the other side of the room. “He looks like he’s going to start bouncing up and down in his seat. What makes him think anyone’s going to even _want_ him on their team?”

Harry gave a slight shrug and reached for the potatoes, placing a few on his plate as he spoke, “Well, he’s a good Seeker.” Ron glared. “I’m just saying, he can play Quidditch.” Pausing for a moment so that he could tuck into his dinner, Harry then continued. “Not that I’m saying _I’d_ want to play with the git.” After the events of earlier that week, Harry was sure the only thing he’d like to share with Malfoy was the blonde boy’s funeral. And possibly not even that.

Ron shrugged and looked at Harry in slight disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re saying anything good about him after all the trouble he’s giving you, Harry. We’ve been back two weeks and he’s already starting to make me dream about murdering him-“ Off Hermione’s rather injured look, he added, “I wouldn’t actually do it!”

“Good,” Hermione replied, in what Harry detected was a fairly clipped tone. “Just because Draco has problems with being remotely agreeable doesn’t mean you should lower yourself to him.” She glanced back down at the ever-present book spread out on her lap as she ate, and smiled slightly. “You have to admit, it would be funny to see Malfoy’s face if he _was_ stuck on the Gryffindor team. Not that he would ever let that happen.”

“It wouldn’t be funny,” Ron retorted. “It would be really, really annoying. I’d have to definitely kill him then.” It was Hermione’s time to glare now. “I swear, Herm, I’m going to kill you next! I’m _joking_!”

*******

“You’ve got to be joking.” Draco Malfoy was staring at Madam Hooch in horror, standing in the middle of her office after having just added his name to the list of Slytherins to be assigned to a Quidditch team. The room was rather small and Spartan; the walls were decorated only with scores of various historic Quidditch players puffing up proudly in their portraits, along with various boring Muggle photos of sports that Draco did not recognize.

“I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, I’m being quite serious,” the hawk-eyed woman regarded him briskly from where she was seated behind her desk as she took the parchment from him. “Now if you’re finished here, I’ve got a lot to do-”

“You’re going to draw the names out of a _hat_? I thought you said this was supposed to be _fair_ -”

“The last time I checked, random assignment was one of the most impartial methods around. So unless you’ve got some startling new research to dazzle me with,” Madam Hooch stood to her feet, clearly deciding that if Draco wasn’t going to get out of her office of his own free will, he was going to have to be externally motivated, “I suggest you get on your way.”

“But, you don’t understand!” Draco sputtered indignantly as the professor ushered him out the door. “I’m unlucky this week-”

“Aren’t we all, Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Hooch remarked dryly, adding “Good day,” as she shut the door in his face. Staring at the coarse wood for a long moment, Draco fought the urge to kick the wall. This, he decided, was a disaster. And it was all that bloody imbecile Hagrid’s fault. The man was clearly a menace and had no business being let near innocent students with his vicious animals. Draco had looked up the Mackled Malaclaw after returning from the hospital wing that Monday following Care of Magical Creatures when one of those horrible oversized crab things of Hagrid’s had nearly taken his ankle off. Apparently “a mite unlucky” was a typical oafish understatement. Pomfrey herself had advised that he stay away from the racetrack this week. He had no idea what the woman was talking about, but he assumed she was making some kind of joke at his expense. He wasn’t laughing.

“What’s the matter, Draco?” Pansy queried at dinner that evening as Draco had once again lost his appetite. “Aren’t you happy about the news? I suppose it isn’t much of a compliment to be playing on a team with a bunch of Mudbloods either way you go, but at least you can still help Ravenclaw take the cup from Gryffindor this year-”

“They’re drawing the names at random,” Draco imparted as he half-heartedly poked at a potato with his fork. He had even gone so far as to ask Professor Flitwick if he had any lucky charms, but the oversized leprechaun had just burst into a fit of squeaky laughter as he walked away. Idiot. He probably just wanted to sabotage Draco from being on his house team.

“Oh. But still, that’s no reason to think you’ll end up on Gryffindor. The drawing is Friday, isn’t it? Oh, I know just the something that will cheer you up,” Pansy gave a superior smile. “Millicent signed up this afternoon too. I think she’ll make a fantastic bludger, don’t you?”

Glancing over to the gigantic girl who towered over even him, Draco couldn’t argue with that. That was of course, provided the massive girl could find a broom to hold her up more than few feet above the ground. “Marvelous,” Draco muttered, not bothering to even pretend that he cared.

“I can’t wait to see you playing Quidditch. I bet you’re the best Quidditch player there ever was,” Mary Sue, who had made herself a permanent institution between himself and Pansy at meals, enthused as she gazed up at him adoringly.

“Just you wait, he’s going to wipe the pitch with Harry Potter this year,” Pansy informed the girl, both of them seemingly oblivious that the topic of their conversation had taken to ignoring them in disgust.

***

It was Friday before any of the students at Hogwarts really knew it, and everybody with a vague interest in Quidditch was bustling around their house dormitories excitedly, keeping the topic of conversation exclusively to beaters, seekers, team selections and who would be winning the cup this year.

Everybody in Gryffindor, Draco had noted quite unsurprisingly, was sure that they were going to win, despite the fact they were going to have to play with one or two Slytherins on their side. Draco thought it was ever so nice of them to allow said Slytherins to be surpassed so generously, in between thinking up plots to casually throw rocks on their heads. Well, at least he still had his sarcasm, even if his luck had flown out the window.

Since Wednesday, Draco’s bad luck had caused the following events, and probably more: he had landed up being the only student in Snape’s class to get double Potions homework (which just went to show _how_ unlucky the Malaclaws were – Snape loved him), had fallen into three potholes and tripped over seven uneven bumps in various pavements, hallways and floorings, spilt pumpkin juice all down his best pair of white pajamas, and that idiot Gryffindor Longbottom backfired a charm that had turned his favorite shoes purple. This was to name but a few of his problems. Draco predicted that if he had indeed taken out any bets, he would have lost them by a mile. Unless, of course, the bets were _against_ himself, and then he would come out a big winner for sure.

So by the time Friday rolled around, he was feeling pessimism catch up with him all the more, and as he gathered in the Great Hall with the other members of Slytherin interested in Quidditch sitting beside him, life seemed fairly grim. The fact that there were only three other members attending the meeting with Ravenclaw and Gryffindor teams (who were seated on opposite sides of the hall, at their respective tables) just made Draco feel even unluckier.

Surely, though, somebody in the great heavens would spare him. Just this once. There would be no way he would end up on … no, it was no use. He wouldn’t even _think_ it. His luck was bad enough without putting it at greater risk with pointless prayers and wishes.

Another point that perturbed Draco quite greatly was the outcome of the two teams. After a draw had been made to decide just which Slytherin was to be on which team, any additional members of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw who wanted to play Quidditch would have to try out. Many members of the two houses had decided this was grossly unfair – after all, why did _Slytherin_ students get an automatic pass when they didn’t even belong.

Draco thought this was all very pointless and dramatic.

“Welcome, everybody.” Hooch had started speaking, and Draco thought she looked fairly amused at the turnout of Slytherins. There he was, sat between Millicent, a fourth year boy who he thought was named Mark (but he couldn’t be sure), and a young third year girl who looked pretty enough, but Draco was sure she couldn’t possibly hold enough strength (or courage, for that matter) to play Quidditch. “The turnout isn’t as… impressive as I might have expected, but this is not a problem. Four is quite enough.”

As if by cue, the young Slytherin girl ran from the hall, her hand over her mouth as though she were going to throw up. Millicent gave a slight smirk, that only a Slytherin could muster, and said, “She told me that if she did that, it probably meant she wanted to be excluded from the draw.”

Hooch looked fairly startled. “Alright then.” She pointed her wand at the hat (an ugly thing, Draco decided), and said a spell. A small flame came from inside, burning out the piece of paper with the young girl’s name on it, Draco could only presume. So there were only three, now. “We shall just have to see how this goes… I know, I’ll enchant the hat. Whoever is last will be put where the hat decides.”

Draco groaned, and Hooch raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem, Mr. Malfoy?”  
  
”Yes. I would like to know since when we allowed accessories to decide who was fit to play on what team,” Draco replied, a sharp edge to his voice. The professor glared at him quite pointedly, and so he quieted down, slumping back in his seat. “Never mind.”

“Right, let’s get on with it then.” Hooch let go of the hat, and it floated in the air beside her. “The first name, please, for Gryffindor.” She tapped the wand, and Draco mentally whispered, _Not me. Bloody not me._ “Millicent Bulstrode!” _That’s the stuff. Me next._ Draco was actually starting to feel rather cheerful.

“Ravenclaw, please,” Hooch said now, tapping the hat again. Draco could feel the smug smile forming on his face. This was his cue, he was sure of it. He could actually feel the bubbles of happiness building up inside him, there they were. Perhaps his luck was looking up, perhaps the stupid Malaclaw hadn’t been quite so effective or- “Martin Crosby!”

Draco gaped, paused. This was not good. Well, he supposed it didn’t matter as much as he was making it out to, there was still a chance he would be on the Ravenclaw team. Fifty-fifty. Suddenly he didn’t like those odds. And he especially didn’t like the way Harry was smiling. Draco wasn’t often picked last.

“Okay, Mr. Malfoy, let’s have the hat decide just where to put you,” Madam Hooch was saying now. Draco fought off the urge to say, ‘Oh goodie, let’s,’ and sat very, very still, as though speaking or moving might distract the hat otherwise. _Put. Me. In. Ravenclaw. You bloody bastard hat. Or I’ll… rip you to shreds. Yes. Feel the wrath of Draco Malfoy._

Yes, he was going insane. He was talking to a hat. In his head. Life couldn’t get any worse.

And suddenly the hat bellowed, “GRYFFINDOR!” and Draco knew that he had just been pushing his bad luck even more with that previous thought.

***

“Why are you laughing Hermione? It’s bloody not funny,” Ron grumbled, having been in an extremely bad temper ever since the events of the disastrous drawing earlier that day. He was sitting in one of the large chairs in the Gryffindor common room, a book on his lap that he clearly had no intention of reading.

“Sorry Ron, it’s just- did you see the look on his _face_? Or your faces for that matter- oh come on, it was the funniest thing I’d ever seen in my life,” Hermione giggled from the chair opposite him, not quite sharing in the ill humor of her classmates. It wasn’t that she didn’t want her house to triumph over Slytherin, but she didn’t see the point of making a fuss over something the professors had clearly thought was for the best or else they would have done something.

“Gosh Hermione, I must have missed that when I was WATCHING OUR ENTIRE QUIDDITCH RECORD BURNING BEFORE MY EYES.”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic- I know we all hate him, but even Harry admits that he’s a good seeker.”

“We bloody have a seeker already, in case you forgot. I say Harry benches him for the rest of the season as reserve seeker or something- I just know Malfoy is going to try to _lose_ every game he plays on purpose just to ruin things for us, you know he will Hermione, that stupid, petty, smug-”

“I’d be more concerned about Millicent Bulstrode if I were you,” Hermione advised, peering over the edge of her book at her friend. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s even _really_ a girl at all. Have you even ever heard her say more than three words at a time besides grunting?”

Ron, who clearly _hadn’t_ thought about his problems beyond Malfoy, now looked even more worried. “Well that settles it. I’m going out for the team this year. There’s no way I’m going to let those Slytherin gits sabotage our record.” The sound of the portrait opening caused both students to look up, thinking it was Harry come back from his conference with Madam Hooch on arranging the team try-outs. They were disappointed to see only Dean and Seamus climbing through the entrance, looking breathless and excited.

“Have you guys heard?” Dean asked as they clomped over, dropping their books on the floor.

“ ‘Course they heard. Harry probably told them ages ago,” Seamus chided his friend before looking back to the two Gryffindors sitting by the fire. “I can’t believe you knew and you held out on us!”

“ _I_ can’t believe we didn’t see it coming. It’s such a Harry thing to do.”

“Yeah, sometimes I think he’s too Gryffindor for Gryffindor’s own good.”

“What _are_ you talking about?” Hermione queried the excited boys, raising her eyebrow curiously. “It’s not as if Harry has a choice you know. The hat chose Draco for Gryffindor, and it’s not like Harry could refuse-”

The two standing boys shared a look. “Huh. I guess they don’t know,” Seamus mused, prompting Ron to look on the verge of exploding as he jumped to his feet, eyeing the other Gryffindors warily.

“Guys- KNOW WHAT?”

The boys shared another look, as if silently arguing which was going to be the bearer of the bad news. Finally, they seemed to decide on sharing the task as they blurted out together, “Harry made Malfoy co-captain.”

“ _WHAT_???!”

 

*******


	3. Tryouts and Tribulations

Draco couldn’t believe where he was. This was something that he would never had expected to do in his life, somewhere he would never expect to be, and the person sitting beside him (be it with a few feet distance between them) was someone he had never expected, or wanted, to sit with.

“So, what do you think of the list?” Harry said reluctantly, cutting into Draco’s line of thought with his dull murmur. Draco glanced down at the list of people trying out for the Gryffindor team and gave a half-hearted shrug. This was Quidditch, yes, and it had been almost a week since the hat had dropped the bomb about his new team-mates, but his heart just wasn’t in it.

Shortly after the hat had announced “Gryffindor!”, in what Draco thought was its loudest voice, just incase the whole school _hadn’t_ heard, Draco’s mouth had dropped. But before he could be given a chance to protest or speak, Hooch had decided that was that and left the room. From that moment, so began the laughter of a certain bushy-haired ( _Oh okay, not anymore_ , Draco had been forced to mentally admit) Gryffindor, and almost as quickly began the vast protests of everybody on the Gryffindor team.

Nobody had considered how _he_ felt though. It was hardly as though he wanted to be stuck on the most honest, fair playing, whinging team in the whole school, and he had announced this. Hermione had simply looked at him with a smile and said, “You say it like it’s a bad thing. Being honest and fair is nothing to be ashamed of, Malfoy.”

To this, he had simply muttered, “Stuff it, Granger.” Even his comebacks had been thrown off track, and he had spent much of the next two days like that. When approached by McGonagall to attend a meeting with her and Harry, he had been reluctant. When he had come out from the room, there was a very obvious change in his stride.

Being made co-captain, even if it was for Gryffindor, was not a feat to be denied. When he had been informed that Harry had _chosen_ him for the position of his own free will, Draco had been well and truly shocked. But then, he supposed it made sense. It was just like the Gryffindor to do something so utterly self-righteous and stupid for the sake of “fairness”. But if Potter wanted to be all idiotically noble in his favour, so be it.  In fact, Draco was fairly certain he would be using this newfound power to try and _fix_ the most boring team in the history of Quidditch. Reluctant though he had been to work side-by-side with Harry Potter, he decided that maybe it would not be so much side-by-side as occasionally-looking-at-each other-in-the-halls.

That was until he was sat where he was now, and Harry was looking at him, waiting for an answer. Draco thought Harry Potter was more impatient than heroic. “I don’t know,” he replied finally, glancing down once again and raising his eyebrow at the scribbled ‘Ron Weasley’ that was down on the parchment in front of him. “Going for the Weasel Family Reunion this year, are we?”

Harry seemed distracted. “What are you talking about, Malfoy?” Draco pointed at Ron’s name, and then, some way down the list, at Ginny’s name, which had been written carefully and lightly underneath a few older Gryffindor names that Draco very vaguely found familiar. “Oh,” Harry said, “Oh, no, I don’t think so.” Draco sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Sarcasm is lost on you, isn’t it Potter?”

At this, Harry glared at his fellow captain, although ‘fellow’ was hardly the appropriate word to describe their situation. “Don’t you ever watch your mouth for a second, Malfoy? For even a second? We have to work together, and I didn’t _have_ to make you co-captain, but I did, so maybe you should show some gratitude.”

Draco found himself laughing at this, not because Harry was trying to be funny (in fact, he looked rather more annoyed at Draco’s response), but because no matter how Draco looked at that comment, he could do nothing but find it amusing. “Oh, _sorry_ , Potter. Remind me why you did that again, if it’s so much like ripping your bloody arm off.”

“Because, Malfoy,” Harry said simply, “you can play Quidditch. You understand the game well, and you know it.” It looked like every word Harry was saying was about ten times more painful than ripping any limb off his body might have been. This whole experience was going to be painful, Harry had thought many times. He just knew Malfoy was thinking the same thing.

Draco smirked still. “Well, in that case I must thank you immensely for this wonderful opportunity, Potter. I’ll have to write you into my will after all.” Sarcasm dripped quite pointedly from his voice, and he raised an eyebrow slightly. “Don’t let me _ever_ forget you gave me the chance to work alongside with you, the most Boring Boy in Britain.”

“I was just trying to be fair, Malfoy. I would think even you would be able to appreciate that, but I guess I overestimated you.”

“Fairness isn’t something to be proud of, Potter. The real world doesn’t play ‘fair’, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Harry reached up to brush his unruly hair away from his forehead for a moment to reveal that famously ugly and jagged scar. His eyes burned with something indefinable as he glared at Draco, though if Draco were to hazard a guess it probably would have been something along the lines of righteous anger or virtuous rage, and said quietly, “I know that better than anyone.”

“Right. I could have done without the show and tell, Potter. Save your sob story for one of your star struck fans who’ll gasp and cry at all the right moments, because I’m fresh out of pity.” Draco rolled his eyes as he shoved the list across the wide expanse between them on the lower bleachers.

“I don’t want your pity,” Harry replied in disgust as he snatched up the list. “Let’s just get on with it.”

And so they did. The rest of the afternoon consisted of watching what seemed to be over half the Gryffindor house (no doubt motivated to try out simply to out-weigh the Slytherin influence on their team) showcasing their pathetic ‘abilities’, both individually and in a mock game without the snitch. The highlight of the entire afternoon was the Weasel’s truly pathetic performance. Draco didn’t know what had inspired the not so athletic boy to try out, but he had less talent than his family had money (which was really saying something). At one point during the game, after fumbling the Quaffle on three different occasions, he had actually _collided_ into one of the goal posts (after his sister had practically _handed_ him the Quaffle) and narrowly avoided falling off his broom. At that, Draco had looked over at Harry who at least had the grace to look vaguely horrified.

“That flying monkey of yours is _not_ getting on the team, Potter,” Draco informed him as he picked up the sheet and drew a large X through Ron’s name. Harry, of course, knew Draco was right but decided to put up a fight anyway because the buffoon was his friend.

“Look, just because you don’t like him, Malfoy-” Harry started, looking annoyed.

“Just because you _do_ like him, Potter, doesn’t change the fact that the idiot can barely stay upright on his broom. He probably only tried out because he thought you would give him a free pass for being a card carrying member of the Harry Potter Appreciation Society.” Draco, who had leaned back with his feet propped up on the seat below him, looked over at Harry with a pointed look of triumph when the other boy actually didn’t seem to have a retort.

“Fine,” Harry muttered finally, ignoring the smug smirk on his co-captain’s face, “but I don’t care how much you hate the Weasleys, Malfoy, you’re not marking off Ginny too. She’s flying really well.”

And here was where Draco did not have a retort, because he had to begrudgingly admit that it was true. In fact he could barely keep his eye on the youngest Weasley to judge her flying ability because she was little more than a red streak across the pitch. And at one point she impressed both captains by executing a slightly amateurish but effective Porskoff Ploy- darting upward with the Quaffle as if more on instinct than any sort of planned strategy, and dropping it down to one of the seventh year girls as all three of the chasers on the other designated ‘team’ went zooming up after her. “I guess it’s true what they say about talent skipping a generation. Too bad the other Weasel got the short end of the broomstick on that one.”

“Shut up Malfoy.”

Draco sighed. “Must you always tell me to shut up, Potter? Don’t you have a better comeback underneath all that bloody hair? Or is your head secretly the size of a peanut?” He smirked slightly. “Or perhaps I’m referring to the wrong part of your body…”  

“No,” Harry replied shortly, giving a slight sigh as he looked over at Draco who had a smirk on his face that Harry just wanted to wipe off. “I tell you to shut up because that’s what I want you to do.” 

Continuing to smirk (much to the other boy’s annoyance), Draco raised his eyebrow slightly and, still scribbling little lines through Ron’s name, he retorted, “Ah, the simple approach to battle. How very quaint of you.” He wasn’t particularly concerned with Harry constantly telling him to be quiet, or to shut up, or whatever insults he happened to throw at him, but Draco did enjoy a good battle of wits. Unfortunately, it seemed he had overestimated Harry. He didn’t seem to have _any_ wits. 

Harry, Draco mused, seemed to be staring rather intently at the quill Draco was using, and with a cheery grin, Draco pointed up to the game of Quidditch that was going on between all the Gryffindor members ‘auditioning’ for a place. Ron had just rather impressively managed to wedge himself between two of his teammates. “Now there’s fresh talent,” Draco said with a grin. “Are you sure we can’t have him play with us? I’d miss him so-“ 

That was enough, Harry decided mentally. He had had enough. Spending a whole day within a three-mile radius of Draco Malfoy was bad as it was, but actually having to sit with him for half the day had been near impossible. He couldn’t concentrate on the game in front of him that he was supposed to be paying attention to, because there was a niggling little voice in his head distracting him. Malfoy’s voice. Draco Malfoy’s unbearable, loud, obnoxious voice. Had Draco known this, he might have thought it all very unfair. Or amusing. Yes, probably more amusing than unfair.  “Look, Malfoy. Why don’t you just-“ 

“Let me guess,” Draco interrupted, his voice the ever-familiar drawl that he had spent years perfecting. “Why don’t I just… shut up?” A dark look flickered across his features for a moment. Harry was not the only one getting fed up. Draco could quite safely confirm that, given the option, he would have performed every curse in the book to get a small zip across Harry’s mouth. Another smirk curled over his lips at this thought, _The Boy Who Didn’t Speak_. It certainly had a nice ring to it. “I think you need a new repertoire, Potter.” 

Apparently Harry had now reached his official breaking point, because he snatched the clipboard and pen from Draco, and swiftly hit him over the head with it. Draco sat open mouthed for a beat, before grabbing the clipboard back and launching it at Harry with a clear _thwack_. When he pulled the clipboard away, there was a bit of blood present. Hitting him again had opened the wound Draco had caused earlier that week.  

The rest of the Gryffindors had gathered from the pitch now, and each one was attempting to dislodge Harry and Draco (who were now indulging in a fairly violent fist fight) from each other, although it was clear whose side they were on. They were being much gentler with Harry, and eventually, Draco was pushed to one side, his hair a mess of silver-blonde and his face tinted with red, particularly underneath his nose. 

“Well, Potter,” he said breathlessly. “Nobody ever said sharing the role of captain with me wouldn’t be painful.”  

***

“Congratulations, Potter. You get to bear witness to a historic event,” Draco Malfoy commented as he sat with his arms folded, scowling faintly at the blank sheet of parchment on the desk before him. The only other boy in the empty classroom didn’t bother looking up from his equally blank sheet of parchment, where he was artfully decorating the letters of his name at the top.

“What are you going on about, Malfoy?”, Harry asked, more out of boredom than any sort of actual curiosity. Well, perhaps out of the smallest amount of curiosity seeing as it was the first time either of them had spoken in a good half hour.

“This is officially the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire _life_ ,” Draco drawled indignantly while he continued to glare at the paper as if its very presence was a personal affront. “I can see why Voldemort is so afraid of our ‘esteemed’ headmaster- the old man is completely off his rocker. His idea of a battle plan is probably enchanting a bag of lemon drops and sending them off as spies.” He was referring, of course, to the detention the boys found themselves serving for the incident at Quidditch tryouts the day before. Professor McGonagall, who had an uncanny knack for sniffing out trouble, had rushed onto the pitch only moments after the two Gryffindor captains had been pulled apart (for the second time) and had been absolutely livid at the “most appalling example” they were setting for their teammates.

And so here they sat, locked in an empty classroom serving the most inane detention Draco had ever heard of in the history of Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore had taken it upon himself to administer their punishment, after giving them some long winded speech about having to learn to work together (Draco had tuned out most of it), and left them here to rot until they filled fourteen inches of parchment apiece with a list of each other’s  “virtues”. Harry had promptly decided that he had the easier job as Draco had no virtues, and taken to decorating his parchment instead. Which brought them to where they were now, forty-five minutes later, having accomplished little more than ignoring each other after a brief spat over who got to sit next to the window (Draco won). But neither of them had killed the other yet, something Draco thought should be regarded as a vast accomplishment.

“He is not crazy, Malfoy. He’s brilliant,” Harry seethed, tossing a stormy glare in Draco’s direction. It gave him at least some small amount of satisfaction to note that Draco’s lip was still swollen from their altercation the day before, seeing as part of their punishment had been that Madam Pomfrey was forbidden to heal their injuries beyond cleaning them up. Something about teaching them the consequences of violent behavior- Harry hadn’t really been listening to most of it, but noting Malfoy’s equally battered condition made Harry feel that much better about his own black eye.

“Right. Brilliant. I don’t see you madly scribbling away in enlightenment, Potter.” Draco rolled his eyes pointedly at the increasingly elegant ‘Harry James Potter’ gracing the top of his page.

“It’s not my fault if you haven’t got any virtues to write down.” Harry replied almost brightly, putting the finishing touches on a curling ‘R’. Glancing over to his classmate who had begun to write something, Harry raised his brow (painfully). “What are you writing?”, he asked a bit dubiously.

“Harry Potter,” Draco recited as he sat back to admire his handiwork, “has an impressively loose grasp of intelligence that would do a Muggle proud.”

“That’s not a virtue, Malfoy!”, Harry very nearly squawked as he made a grab for Draco’s list. “Give me that-” 

“I will not- stop it, you’re going to tear it, you clumsy prat,” Draco jabbed at the offending hand with his quill.

“Ow,” Harry let go of the list and withdrew his injured hand. “Fine.” Harry glared, snatching up his own quill and scribbling something down on his paper. “Draco Malfoy,” Harry announced as he wrote, “has the biggest ego in the wizarding world.”

“I try.” Draco smirked arrogantly as if Harry had delivered a compliment, before adding another line to the scroll, “Potter has cornered the market on self righteous idiocy.”

“Malfoy is excellent at being a spoiled git.”

“Potter is a superb role model for self pitying orphans everywhere.”

“ _Malfoy_ has the fashion sense of girl.”

“ _Potter_ has the personal hygiene of an aging Yeti.”

“MALFOY does a great impression of someone with a broomstick stuck up his-”

“POTTER seems to have confused me with his own rigidly moralistic Gryffindor self, who walks around with Mudblood and the Weasel’s lips permanently petrified to his _own_ ars-”

“Watch your mouth Malfoy. Those are my friends you’re talking about.”

“Make me, Potter. They aren’t mine.” Both boys had risen to their feet by now, their lists forgotten as they glared furiously at each other.

“This is ridiculous! We’re going to be here all night if we don’t start taking this seriously. I don’t know about you, but I actually have better things I could be doing than standing around trading lame insults with you.”

“Could have fooled me,” Draco shot back with a sneer as he folded his arms again.

Harry seemed to be wavering over the idea of hitting Draco again, and Draco could sense this without needing to see the other boy for a second observation. Well, he thought, if Potter even tried to touch him and mess up his hair _again_ , there would be trouble. And now Harry was looking at him. Apparently in the time that had passed, he’d spoken.

“I must apologise,” Draco said after a pause. “I seem to have accidentally drowned out the sound of your pitiful voice. Are you expecting your voice to break anytime soon, Potter?”

Harry glared at Draco still, his fists both clenched into tight balls. “I said, _Malfoy_ , maybe we should just swap and write our own.” He looked at Draco now, his eyes full of dislike and annoyance. Draco thought he looked rather like a goldfish that was about to explode.

“Hmm…” Draco seemed to be musing over this idea quite carefully, pointedly taking a long time to think it through, which only annoyed Harry further. Which, really, had been Draco’s intention anyway. _Game, set and match_ , he thought with a smirk. “Well, it’s not a terrible idea. I do have many, many virtues. The list will be very long.”

“Well, maybe you could read it to the rest of us when you’re done,” Harry retorted, “because nobody else seems to be aware of them.” He threw his piece of parchment in Draco’s direction, and Draco snatched it up, immediately reaching for his quill and spilling a huge blob of ink on it. “Malfoy! What did you do that for?”

Draco shrugged. “It has your name on it. I clearly did not do it.”

What Harry did next actually managed to catch Draco by surprise. Reaching for the ink pot, Harry proceeded to throw it at Draco, splashing blue all over his robes, face, and more importantly, in his hair. It took less than a second for Draco to attack Harry this time (his main objective was attempting to stuff the other boy’s stupid list down his throat), but their fight was short lived as both boys felt their limbs stiffen, unable to move them.

Dumbledore. But he did not look angry, just faintly amused, as he spoke. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, this does not look like list writing. Ah, I see you have finished.” Taking Draco’s now crumpled piece of ink-splattered parchment from the desk, a smile appeared on the professor’s face as he read aloud, “Harry has the fantastic ability to make it look like he has pulled his head through a hedge every morning.”

Harry glared in Draco’s direction, saying quickly and angrily, “You added to it?!” Draco did not have a chance to answer, as Dumbledore was looking at them both, the smile still planted on his face as he let Draco’s parchment rest back on the desk.

“Should I expect that yours is much the same, Harry?” he asked, and he reached for his wand. Pointing it at the desk, he apparated two new pieces of parchment and set them in front of the two Gryffindor captains who had (now that they could move) returned to their seats. “Let us try again.” And with that, he winked at them both, popped two sherbet lemons on the desk, and left the room.

Giving a long-suffering sigh, Harry was the first to break the silence. “Should we just write our own then?” Draco shrugged, nodded, and set down to work, a concentrated smirk on his face. When he had finished, he had twenty-seven points on the list, and had only stopped because he had run out of space on the parchment. Harry’s list was much more modest, and comprised only fifteen items.

When Dumbledore finally returned, he insisted on reading the lists aloud, and Draco was certain he was trying not to laugh at some points (“Harry is honest a good sport”, “Harry is very loyal to his friends”, “Harry is a REALLY good seeker, way better than me”), especially, “ ‘Harry could teach me a few things about being a decent human being instead of such a-’, really Mr. Malfoy, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”  His eyes sparkled knowingly as Draco had scowled at Harry. Perhaps the old man wasn’t so bad after all, although the task was certainly the strangest punishment he had ever encountered in all his time in magical schools. Harry was smiling rather happily at the old man’s “sense of humour” (Draco was unsure this was what _he_ would call it). The smile faded slightly as Draco’s list was read out.

The list, which now had twenty-nine items (Draco had sneaked a few in, he couldn’t help himself), included:

  * Absolutely perfect hair
  * A stunningly perceptive and observant sense of humour
  * Terrific dress sense, and looks particularly stunning in green
  * Sex appeal beyond the belief of most girls in Hogwarts
  * Wit as sharp as a knife
  * Intelligence superior to all my idiot friends any of the other students in his year (especially in, but not limited to, Potions)



And so it went on. Finally, at 5.30pm, the boys were allowed to leave. It had taken twenty-five minutes to read Draco’s list, mainly because Harry had been laughing so much that Dumbledore had had to stop frequently. Draco couldn’t quite tell if Harry was laughing because of his ‘stunningly perceptive and observant sense of humour’ and ‘wit as sharp as a knife’, or because he thought Draco was incredibly stupid. Well, it had better not be the latter (even though, knowing The Boy Who Thought He Was Merlin’s Gift to Hogwarts, it probably was).

Still, if it had been, Harry didn’t let on. He actually seemed much more (shockingly) friendly towards Draco than he had been at the start of the ordeal, and as the two stood outside the classroom they had been trapped in for over two hours, Harry turned to Draco and said, “So, do you think we can find a way to run this team without killing each other or ending up stuck here every day?”

Draco gave a slight shrug, a smirk (somehow managing to look dignified despite being still rather impressively coated in now dry blue ink), and replied, “Maybe if you sort out your hair.” And then he walked away, leaving Harry to stand alone, a miffed sort of expression that was between a frown and a smile on his equally ink smeared face.

 

***

“Harry!” The simple exclamation came from Hermione as she walked into the Gryffindor common room, where Harry was sat with Lavender Brown, a piece of parchment (possibly homework, Hermione mused) in his hands, and a small smile on his face at Hermione’s obviously surprised reaction. “What have you done?”

As though it were the most obvious thing in the world, Harry simply replied, “Had a haircut.” And indeed he had. His usually unruly and out of place hair had been trimmed quite impressively. It was strange to see, Hermione thought, how his face looked so different just because of a simple haircut. He looked older suddenly, despite the still boyish eyes sparkling with accomplishment behind his glasses.

“I thought you couldn’t cut your hair-  doesn’t it always grow back?” Hermione asked, a curious frown on her face as she glanced over to Lavender, who was wielding a pair of sharp scissors and her wand.

Lavender was smiling too now, and Hermione realized that she had quite possibly been responsible for Harry’s new look. What Hermione couldn’t work out was _why_ Harry had decided to cut it all off. “Well,” Lavender started, “it was actually really simple. We just used the scissors to cut it – it sounded really weird at first, because I’ve never… well, you know, I’ve never done anything _Muggle_ – and then used a Co-operation Charm on his hair afterwards. It was Harry’s idea.” She beamed proudly and looked over at Harry, who nodded slightly.

“It was my idea,” he echoed, looking smug and humble at the same time, if possible. He could tell Hermione was confused, so he elaborated. “It’s not permanent. It’s… well, it’s kind of a gesture.”

“For?”

“Malfoy.” At Hermione’s shocked expression (Harry was sure there was a little shred of pride for him hinted at also), he laughed somewhat. “We had detention, remember? And he made a crack about needing to sort my hair out before we were co-captains – well, that was the gist anyway. And so, ta-da.” Harry pointed to his hair with another smile, before standing to his feet. “Thanks again Lavender," he added to his classmate, who merely beamed further as if being allowed to have a hand in taming his famously unruly locks with her unmatched skill in cosmetic magic was thanks enough, before turning to Hermione. "We have Transfiguration, right?”

Hermione nodded, her expression still giving away just how amazed she apparently was. In less than twenty-four hours, it seemed that Harry had gone from despising Draco to making (albeit temporary) physical changes for him. It was all very odd. But of course, she supposed, his love for the sport of Quidditch was probably enough to at least temporarily override his longstanding hatred of his new co-captain. “Yes,” she said softly, still half in thought. “Then Divination. I don't know why you two are still taking that ridiculous class- sorry Lavender," Hermione offered quickly to the girl who had begun to glare at her, seeing as Lavender and her friend Parvati were among those who absolutely worshiped Professor Trelawney- the crackpot divinations teacher. "Where’s Ron?”

Harry pointed towards the boy’s bedroom hastily. “He’s just coming. I think he’s trying to do his homework really quick before McGonagall puts a Static Spell on him again.” Hermione giggled, remembering how they had had to pull countless objects off of Ron’s body for a week after Professor McGonagall had gotten particularly irritated with them.

“Alright,” she replied with a smile, looking once more at Harry’s hair with dim amusement. “You boys are mad, you know that? I don't know how I've managed to put up with you both this long without being driven to it myself.”

"Who says you haven't?" Ron interjected, evidently catching the snatch of conversation as he emerged from the dormitory, his book and papers tucked hastily under his arm. "I'd say you got there before any of us did. Come on, we're gonna be late! …Harry, what happened to your _hair_?!"

***

While the Gryffindors sat in Transfiguration (where Ron had indeed given in his homework, only to have it brutally rejected), Draco was in the Slytherin bedroom doing nothing in particular after finishing up his extra Potions assignment. Having a room to himself didn’t seem to have quite so many advantages as he had first thought. It was, instead, incredibly boring. When it came to four o’clock, however, he left the room. It was time to meet Harry and discuss the final Gryffindor team. Draco hadn’t had to think particularly hard about it to know who he did and didn’t want on it.

The first thing that Draco noticed when Harry arrived at the empty classroom they had designated for the meeting was that the disorganized prat was five minutes late. The second thing he noticed caused him to loft an eyebrow at the Gryffindor as he flopped down into the desk opposite the one Draco had been reclining in for some time. "Someone finally explain the concept of looking presentable to you, Potter? Or did one of those tittering Gryffindor girls finally snap and Incendio your hair into submission?"

"Something like that," Harry met Draco's barb with only the beginnings of a wry smile as he produced a few pieces of parchment from his robes. "So, you think we can manage to do this without killing each other _now_?"

"I suppose," Draco gave a long suffering sigh as he leaned back in his chair.  He actually had mulled this over the night before, and had finally come to the decision that he wanted to play Quidditch as much as the other boy, (more, in his own opinion), and if that meant he had to suffer the horrible indignity of getting along with the Gryffindor Mascot to do it, well fine. Quidditch wouldn't be nearly as fun if it didn't mean getting a chance to beat the do-gooder Gryffindors, but even this was better than suffering the entire year with absolutely nothing to do besides schoolwork and dodging Pansy's doting attentions. "Though if I had known you were going to run off and do whatever I said, I would have thought of something more interesting. Is it too late to say I'll only do it if you give Snape a lap dance in the Great Hall?"

" _Yes_!", Harry exclaimed, scandalized at the very idea and glaring accordingly at the other boy who merely offered a cool smirk in return.

"You're awfully squeamish for a 'fearless Gryffindor', Potter. Give me that," Draco leaned over to pluck the list from Harry's hand before returning to his reclining position as though he had never left it. The next quarter of an hour consisted of finalizing which players were on the team proper, which were on reserves, and which hadn't made the cut at all (headed up prominently by Ron, whose name Draco highlighted with several arrows pointing to it on the list of rejects). Midway through haggling out the positions of those who _had_ made the team, Draco looked up suddenly with a cross frown. "What a minute- what position am _I_ supposed to be playing?"

"Oh," Harry frowned thoughtfully. "I just assumed- you're going to be reserve Seeker, aren't you?"

" _Reserve_ Seeker?" The word sounded like the most obscene of insults dripping from Draco's lips in contempt. "I won't be a glorified bench warmer, Potter. If that was the whole point of this little co-captain exercise, just so you could justify keeping me out of the game proper, then you can forget it because I refuse."

"What? No," Harry protested. "I just thought- well what else are you supposed to do, Malfoy? You've only ever played Seeker, and we already have one. And it's not like I'm about to give it up for you of all people, so you can just-"

"So?" Draco interrupted Harry's little tirade with a raised eyebrow as if wondering how anyone could possibly be so dense. "Did it ever occur to you, Potter, that just because I happen to have played a certain position for a few years it might not mean that I don't have extensive knowledge in _every_ aspect of the game?"

"Well, do you?" Harry looked extremely skeptical as he regarded the Slytherin with an incredulous brow raise of his own.

"Of course I do," Draco scoffed. "Who do you think I am, _you?_ I'm beyond insulted."

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," Harry shot back, ruffled. Mostly because it was true- the only position he really knew how to play was Seeker, something he did more on instinct than anything else, and therefore it had never occurred to him that someone could actually learn more than one, and be able to do it well. All the positions just seemed so…diverse, to him. Therefore, he concluded that Draco was clearly exaggerating in the typical way that he did about everything. "You really expect me to believe that you know how to play _all_ the other positions?"

"Of _course_ I do." Draco looked horribly insulted at the insinuation, as if the idea that he was not an expert in all things Quidditch was simply ludicrous. "I could wipe the floor with you in any position ever invented, Potter."  There was a pause, and for a moment Harry suddenly had a strange expression on his face, much like the look he had had his first Quidditch game when he nearly swallowed the snitch like an oversized goldfish. For a moment Draco wondered if Harry was going to be sick, and then he realized that the boy was choking back laughter. " _What?_ …oh shut up Potter, that's obviously not what I meant."

"Alright Malfoy," Harry finally managed after his, Draco felt, wholly inappropriate fit of amusement had finally subsided. "You really think you can handle another position on the team?"

"I think that would be glaringly obvious, Potter," Draco sneered at the other captain, still disgruntled at his scepticism.

"Then prove it."

"What?" Draco regarded the other boy with curiosity, loathe to admit that he was a bit caught off guard by this unexpected request.

"You heard me." Harry's eyes sparkled with something akin to determination and mischief as he repeated  again, "prove it."

"And how exactly," Draco drawled as he folded his arms, "am I supposed to do _that?"_

 

*******

Hermione gave a sigh as Ron chattered on in her ear. The pair were walking towards the Quidditch pitch, and for the ten minutes it had taken to get from the Gryffindor common room to the outside of the large castle looming behind them, Ron had been complaining. It was a mixture of comments, but most of them were about Draco Malfoy. This did not surprise Hermione particularly. He had also been complaining quite liberally about Harry’s haircut, especially since the explanation for it did not please him in the slightest. 

“Well, he’s not here,” Ron said as they finally reached the pitch. Hermione frowned slightly, and looked up. With a slight smile, she pointed into the air. “Look.” 

The sight that was presented to them both might have been extremely amusing had it not been so unusual. In the air, holding desperately onto his broomstick, was Harry, and across the pitch, Draco was pelting the bludgers at him with all his might. Hermione wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to try and save Harry. 

Ron, however, looked ready to kill. “Malfoy’s trying to give Harry a concussion! What does he think he’s doing?!” 

***

“I told you I could do it, Potter!” Draco shouted, using his bat to swipe another bludger in Harry’s direction as it came back around to him. Harry winced and ducked down in the air again, wishing he had never bothered to challenge the other boy. He should have known Draco Malfoy never did anything by halves.  

They had been practising for what must have been hours now, Draco mused, and he had tested out every role in Quidditch, starting with Chaser and working his way to where they were now – and Draco was particularly enjoying this. Being a beater was much more fun that it looked to be on the pitch, and was more challenging than the position of Seeker, which Draco had always found effortless. Being a beater was fun, gritty and vicious, everything Draco felt himself to be. With this thought in mind, he hit the bludger, which had returned to him, back at Harry who let out what sounded suspiciously like a shriek and ducked again. 

Harry, out of breath, finally nodded, waving his arms in the air to signal Draco to stop. “Alright, alright,” he shouted across the pitch breathlessly, “I believe you. You can hit the bludger. What more do you want?”  

“I want to be a beater.” It was a simple statement. Draco didn’t feel the need to ask permission; he knew he was good at it. And he knew Harry couldn’t deny that, and couldn’t possibly argue his way around this. “Is that a problem?” Instead of responding, Harry pointed down to the ground, repositioned his broom and shuttled away. Draco followed with a roll of his eyes. _Drama queen._  

Once he had reached the ground, Draco saw that Hermione and Ron had arrived. Ron was speaking furiously with Harry, apparently concerned for whatever reason. It seemed the stupid redhead had decided Draco was _attacking_ Harry, and now he bustled over to Draco with his face screwed up in rage. Draco thought he looked rather funny. “What do you want, Weasley?” 

“You were throwing bludgers at Harry! You could have killed him!!” 

Draco smirked slightly. “I do believe that's somewhere in the job description of a Beater.” Ron looked as though he had been hit in the face with a large custard pie, and he shot an accusatory glare at Draco before glancing back briefly at Harry and Hermione, who were walking over to the pair. 

“You aren’t a Beater,” Ron replied simply. “You’re a Seeker. A _Reserve_ Seeker. Just like Harry said.” There was a pause, and then he added, “ _Harry said so_.” He sounded very indignant, and for a moment, Draco almost felt sorry for him. Almost.  

“Well, Weasel, there’s been a few changes made in the team. Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to know, because you’re not on it.” Letting out a shallow laugh, Draco raised an eyebrow and walked away from Ron. Looking at Harry, he paused and asked, “Same time tomorrow, Potter?” 

Harry, who had been quiet for the past few moments, gave a slight nod. He wasn’t sure whether to be angry at Draco, or relieved because he had saved him the job of telling Ron he hadn’t made the team. Really, it should have been fairly obvious though. It didn’t matter that Ron couldn’t play Quidditch, he was good at others things. But he was _really_ bad at Quidditch… he couldn’t be that oblivious. Could he? 

As Draco walked away from the pitch, a very nearly broad grin on his face (not that the three Gryffindors could have known), Harry approached Ron with a guilty looking smile. “Er-”

This was all he managed, as Ron shot him a glare, and said, “Don’t bother. I can tell I’m not wanted on this pitch. Why don’t you go and talk to _Malfoy_ some more?” He walked away in the opposite direction to Draco, leaving Harry and Hermione to stand together, both frowning and rather bewildered.

They both ducked as one of the bludgers whistled past their heads. "Aren't you going to put those away?," Hermione asked as they both looked up at the two balls hurtling around in the air. She was sure that she heard Harry mutter something resembling a curse on Malfoy as he trudged back for his broom.

***

The Gryffindor table at lunchtime the next day was abuzz with a steady hum of excitement as it slowly filled up. The list of those who made the team had been posted that morning, and most everyone had been to see it at least once by then. Except, of course, for Ron Weasley, who was slouched over at the table with a disgruntled scowl on his face as he pointedly ignored his friend sitting on the other side of Hermione who was, as usual in these situations, a human buffer between them. This had been going on since the previous afternoon when Ron had been less than tactfully informed of his nonexistent position on the Gryffindor team. Neither of them could figure out whether he was more furious that he hadn't made it, or that Draco had. He didn't even bother to look up as his sister walked over to them, beaming brightly.

"Hi Harry. I just saw the list- I can't believe I made Chaser!" Ginny glowed happily. "Thank you-"

"Don't thank me," Harry returned the smile as he looked up from his lunch. "You had more to do with it than I did. Even _Malfoy_ had to admit that you're really good."

"Really?" The beginnings of that famous redhead blush were creeping up Ginny's cheeks as she smiled, flustered but obviously pleased.

"Wait a minute," Ron looked up, apparently having been listening after all.  " _She_ made the team? On her first try?"

"Ron-", Hermione started in a warning tone, sensitive to the fact that his sister was starting to blush scarlet more from embarrassment than pleasure at her older brother's very public outrage. 

"But she's only a fifth year! Or did _Malfoy_ convince you to do that, too? No, I can see where going around changing everything could get to your head."

"There's nothing wrong with having a fifth year chaser, Ron. Not everyone starts out as a reserve," Harry stated quietly, aware that the rest of the table had gone quiet and was now paying more attention to them than was necessary. "Especially since we didn't even have Quidditch last year. It just makes sense-"

"Oh, so it just makes sense that you would chose my _sister_ and Malfoy over me? Thanks a lot, Harry. That's what friends are for, huh?"

"Ron, this doesn't have anything to do with that," Harry began, bewildered that Ron couldn't seem to understand that it wasn't anything personal. As a captain, he had to do what made the most strategic sense for the team, and that didn't have anything to do with friendship. But before he could launch into explaining this, a cold voice cut in.

"It's got to do with talent, Weasley," came that annoyingly familiar smug drawl as Draco, who had just entered the hall, paused by the now rapt Gryffindor table. It probably shouldn't have come as much of a surprise to the four as it did; the Slytherin seemed to have a knack for interrupting their conversations.  "And your stunning lack thereof."

Ron's white hands as they clenched into balled fists were a marked contrast to his scarlet face as he whirled to face Draco. "What would you know about talent? You only got on the team because of a stupid hat."

"You can't blame the Weasel for being upset, Potter." Draco sneered in Harry' s direction, purposefully ignoring Ron's jab. "I'd be embarrassed if my _little sister_ flew circles around me, too." Beside them, Ginny turned an even darker shade of red, frozen to the spot by the embarrassment of feeling responsible for the entire exchange.

"You don't have a little sister," Hermione pointed out, apparently deciding to deal with the explosive situation by focusing on trivial details to retain her sanity.

"Hypothetically, Granger. I see sarcasm is lost on you too." As Draco spoke, his steely glare remained fixed on Ron, who he had decided he disliked more than ever now. The boy just couldn’t take any kind of criticism, a quality Draco felt was essential if you were ever going to be good at anything. He was beyond used to correction, as his father had drummed it into him since he was a child, and seeing Ron get all emotional over not making a sports team just seemed pathetic in comparison. 

Hermione gave a little shrug and turned back to her plate, which was empty but much more appealing than getting involved in what she was sure was going to turn into World War III any moment now. She could sense both boys next to her becoming more and more riled up, even Harry. The thing that surprised her, though, was that Harry (who Hermione could read like an old library book by now) did not seem to be mad at Draco, but at Ron, who spoke indignantly now.  

“She did NOT fly circles around me! She’s just…” He trailed off, realizing only now that his younger sister was looking at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and also that he could not finish the sentence without upsetting her further. “Whatever. You’re not worth it, Malfoy. You’re just a spoiled brat who doesn’t know what it is to be nice to anyone about anything. If you weren’t such a prat, I might feel sorry for you.” With that, Ron pushed his seat from under him, stood up and left the hall, pushing past Draco as he did.  

The entire Gryffindor table was looking at Draco now, some of them smirking proudly and clearly thrilled that one of their classmates had stuck up to Draco Malfoy ( _Shock, horror, gasp,_ Draco thought dryly), and the minority – including Hermione and Harry – with somber frowns. It had been no secret that Ron was mad at Harry the past day or so, and more or less everyone close to him or Harry had anticipated another argument. Hermione, in particular, had known this would happen.  

It was Draco who spoke first, addressing the distressed Ginny, which surprised even him. “Ignore him, Weasley. He’s jealous of anyone who’s good at something.” 

Ginny, who looked a mixture of upset, embarrassed, and proud that she had made the team in her fifth year, found herself unsure of what to say to this. She had always been painfully loyal to her older brothers, who usually stuck up for her through thick and thin, and she had _always_ hated Draco Malfoy as a rule, but now she just felt confused. Ron was jealous, she knew that much, and while she was used to him talking about her as though she wasn’t there, she didn’t usually come away from it feeling quite so bad. He had especially never humiliated her quite like this (in front of the entire Gryffindor house no less!). And Malfoy, of all people, actually sticking up for her was just weird. It went against everything in her brain. Of course, he was probably only doing it for the chance to get under Ron’s skin, but still.

Giving a brief shrug of her shoulders, looking much like Hermione had earlier when responding to Draco, Ginny instead gave a sigh and said simply, “I guess.” Draco didn’t say anything to this; he just looked at her in a way that Ginny thought was very dismissive, and walked away from the table. 

She had a feeling this next week was going to be very challenging, and knew that this was echoed by Harry and Hermione, who had both proceeded to talk now in very hushed voices. Ginny wondered what they were saying, what Harry was saying mostly. He didn’t seem to be very happy at all. Taking a seat near them (but not near enough to eavesdrop even though she was sorely tempted), Ginny sighed once more and tried not to think about Ron as she pulled out her Muggle Studies homework. It was going to be a long day.


	4. Practice and Premonitions

Quidditch practice began a few days later on Monday of the next week. Draco was amused to see a larger gathering of students in the stands than was usual- apparently word had gotten around about the eventful tryouts the week before, and no one wanted to miss the unfolding of the compelling drama that would no doubt be Potter vs. Malfoy, round II. Among those in the stands was the predictable Hermione Granger, surrounded by several open books as if she couldn’t decide which one to study from so she settled on them all. The place at her side was conspicuously absent of a certain flaming redhead, which was a telltale sign that all was still not well within the magnificent trio. Draco caught the other captain also eyeing that empty seat, but instead of the plaintive, wounded puppy look he had sported throughout the period in his fourth year the last time he had a falling out with his explosive friend, Harry’s eyes narrowed somewhat in irritation.

_Interesting_ , Draco thought as he watched Harry grip his broom tighter and stomp over to where the rest of the team was assembled on the pitch. Draco was sorely tempted to make a snide remark on the subject but actually (by some small miracle) managed to suppress the impulse at the warning glare Harry shot in his direction. It was a look that warned him if he so much as said one word about Ron, they would end up in detention faster than you could say ‘Weasley is a vulgar simpleton’.

The rest of the team was already assembled- Chasers Ginny Weasley, Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas were clustered to one side with the seventh year Keeper Sarah Fletcher, while Millicent Bulstrode (the other Slytherin Beater) stood off to the other side near Draco, leaning on her broom and generally looking menacing. The reserves (mostly fourth and fifth years) were in the stands watching, but Draco had never really considered them to be part of the team proper and ignored them as he took in each of the players with a practiced eye while their ‘illustrious leader’ stepped to the front of the pack. Because of the two year hiatus in the sport, no one besides Harry and himself had played in an actual game before though Fletcher had been a reserve her fourth year. Little Weasley, by far, stood out as the greenest player of the bunch: clutching her old Shooting Star Seven broomstick in slightly oversized robes that hung off her and flapped in the breeze as she kept fidgeting and darting completely intimidated looks towards Millicent who glowered back calmly.

Harry cleared his throat in a rather useless gesture to capture the attention he mostly already had the moment he stepped onto the pitch. “Alright, well I guess you all know why you’re here.”

Draco rolled his eyes as he held back a snort. _No, really, I have no idea,_ he thought dryly, _I just like to put on Gryffindor robes and strut around the pitch with your merry band of do-gooders for kicks_. Which was another thing that had the resident Slytherin representatives on the team in a foul temper; the fact that Draco was being forced to wear Gryffindor colors anywhere on his person made him long to set himself on fire. That Draco, of all people, had actually (albeit extremely reluctantly) agreed to it was a testament to just how desperate he was for some kind of diversion from the dreary year this was turning out to be.

 

“Just about everyone on the team is new this year,” Harry continued, “so none of you should feel like you’re starting out too much behind anyone else. We’re all going to have to practice just as hard if we want to beat Ravenclaw. Which is why I-” Draco cleared his throat, and it was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes as he amended, “Malfoy and I, drew up these schedules for the two months until our first game in November.” There was a shuffle as Harry passed around the copies. “We meet as a team twice a week on Mondays and Wednesdays in the afternoon since Ravenclaw booked the pitch for mornings.  On top of that we thought it would be a good idea if the different positions practiced together once a week- Tuesday for Chasers, Beaters on Thursday, and Sarah, you’re Fridays. If that’s a problem for any of you, come talk to me or- well, just come talk to me and we’ll work it out.” Harry adjusted his glasses as he paused from his speech to look up at the team, clearly not entirely comfortable with all eyes on him. But because Harry (quite justifiably) questioned Draco’s ability to deliver the information without provoking the Gryffindors to do him bodily harm, he had insisted on being the spokesperson of the two captains. “Ok, well that’s all I’ve got. I guess we should get started.”

And so they did. The practice ran for a little over an hour, and each Gryffindor seemed to go away begrudgingly accepting the fact that their team seemed overall rather improved, even with two Slytherins mixed into the group. Draco was sure that the Gryffindors had probably never had a team like this. They couldn’t possibly have while Draco was on the opposition; he was simply far too intimidating.  

Draco also found that he was rather enjoying his new position as a Beater, although they had to stop practice a few times when he became slightly too enthusiastic and hit the Bludgers a bit too hard (and in the direction of the other players, entirely by accident, of course). Sarah Fletcher was now temporarily sporting what Draco thought was a rather fetching broken nose, and two large ugly bruises adorned Millicent Bulstrode’s even uglier face. Draco wondered if perhaps _he_ would be getting bruises later. Millicent could be quite scary when she wanted to be (which was pretty much all the time, though not to Draco as a matter of course). 

After practice was finished, Draco was left to clear the pitch with Harry and catch the Bludgers, which were always particularly hard to coax (force usually worked far better) back into the box of Quidditch balls. Hermione stayed behind to wait for Harry, too.  

“Granger,” Draco said, between breaths as he wrestled the one remaining Bludger to the floor desperately while Harry raced after the Snitch (which had escaped during an argument between the two captains about whether they could at least compromise and wear purple), “do you think you could make yourself just a bit useful and hold open the box?” 

Hermione looked momentarily surprised, and then nodded. “Oh. Of course, yes.” She walked over to the box and held it wide open as Draco crawled across the floor and finally managed to shove the ball into its space. Hermione then slammed the lid shut, and Draco yelped. “Are you alright? Did I get your finger?” 

Shaking his head slightly, Draco held up his hand, which was injury free. “No. Nearly, though. I’ll let you off just this once.” Managing a slight smirk, which Hermione returned faintly, Draco then looked over to Harry who had also captured the Snitch and was carrying it over towards them. 

“Good practice, Malfoy,” Harry said as he popped the Snitch into its place with ease. Draco grumbled nonsensically at this, but Harry just ignored him and continued. “You were right about being a Beater.” 

Draco snorted. “Of course I was right. I told you, Potter, I can play any position you throw at me.”  

An expression of skepticism once more crossed over Harry’s face, annoying Draco greatly, and the oh-so-famous boy retorted, “Well, I can dodge any Bludger you throw at _me_.” Hermione looked slightly worried, and was clearly mentally praying that the two boys didn’t have yet another fight.  

Instead of arguing back, however, Draco just smirked once more with what seemed to be amusement. “Did you spend the _whole_ day waiting for an opportunity to say that?”

Even more to Hermione’s surprise, Harry actually returned the comment with a half grin, and sheepishly said, “Yeah, I guess.” Draco could tell Hermione’s head was spinning with thoughts of personality switching spells and parallel universe situations. Come to think of it, he himself was rather starting to wonder how their usually filled-with-hatred comments had turned into what may just as well be described as banter. Oh there was still plenty of hatred, Draco insisted, but it was merely less poorly concealed. As a Slytherin, if getting along with Potter was a viable means to achieve his ends (ie: Quidditch), then so be it. That was all.

Draco grabbed one side of the box storing all the balls, and pointed to the other side. “Would you stop fussing around like a bloody old woman and move this?” When Hermione moved towards him, he rolled his eyes. “Not you. Your boyfriend over there.” Flushing red, Hermione started to assure Draco that Harry was not her boyfriend ( _She must think I’m especially stupid_ , he mused), but he quickly cut her off. “Potter, are you coming or not?” 

Harry walked over and grabbed the other side of the box in response, and the two boys started across the pitch, tailed by Hermione. She and Harry chatted most of the way across (which mostly consisted of Granger drilling Harry about keeping up with his studies around the intensive practice schedules), whilst Draco remained silent. As much as he could put up with playing Quidditch with a group of Gryffindors, tolerating their conversation was a whole different ballgame, and one that he wasn’t particularly jumping up and down to join. So instead, he walked quietly, filling his mind with thoughts of happier times. 

***

After leaving Draco, Harry and Hermione made their way towards the Gryffindor common room together. “So, are you talking to him yet?”   
  
Harry looked up, and shrugged. “Malfoy? Yeah, I guess. You heard us, we’re not exactly friends or anything but we’re both still alive so-” 

Hermione interrupted with a shake of her head, “I meant Ron. Have you spoken to him about Quidditch yet? You know he didn’t come to watch practice today.” Harry frowned slightly, clearly not wishing to be reminded of this fact, and completely eradicating any doubts Hermione had had that he hadn’t even noticed. He had noticed, and it obviously bothered him. “Why don’t you just say you’re sorry?” 

“ _Me_?!” Harry glared suddenly at Hermione, who quickly looked away. “Why should I say I’m sorry? I didn’t do anything wrong!”  

“Well, because, for one, you and Ron are best friends. And secondly, there’s no way he’ll apologise to you, Harry, and you know he won’t. So just swallow your pride and say sorry. Tell him it was all Malfoy’s idea-” 

Harry stopped her mid-sentence with an abrupt, “No. It wasn’t, so I won’t say that.” His features settled into an irritated frown as he added,  “Maybe I’m tired of always having to be the bigger person here. If we’re such good friends, he should know me well enough by now, he knows I would never…maybe he’s the one that should be apologizing to _me_. ” His pace quickened, and Hermione found herself running to catch up with him. The rest of the walk was silent, with Harry sulking and Hermione frowning thoughtfully. Why did boys have to be so stubborn? 

***

When Draco got back to the Slytherin common room (which was deserted save for a lone third year who he cleared out with a Look), he was fairly surprised to see a large eagle owl reminiscent of his own waiting for him. He knew immediately it was from his father and, taking the parchment and handing the owl a couple of knuts (to which the owl responded by nipping him quite hard on the hand and flying away out through the only window in the dungeons, far at the top of the high ceiling), Draco sat down to read it.

It was a very short note : _Draco, I will be requiring to speak to you this evening. I shall appear in the fireplace to discuss some matters of importance at 7.20pm. Please be in the common room promptly, as you know how I feel about reliability and punctuality._

Draco raised his eyebrows slightly, not particularly surprised by the tone his father used as it was his usual form and cold personality shining through, but because his father actually wished to speak to him. Well, he supposed it wasn’t so much that he _wished_ to speak to him as there was probably a pressing issue to discuss. Such as why Draco had left the white towels in with the grey towels and upset his mother, or what brand of eagle feed he was using and why he wasn’t using a better one.

Looking at his watch, Draco recognized that he had about 10 minutes before Lucius Malfoy would pop up in the fireplace and no doubt startle Draco by announcing his presence with pointed suddenness. Of course, it was fairly typical of Lucius to be awkward and give Draco enough time to suitably do _nothing_ , and so Draco sat down in front of the fireplace and carelessly picked up a book from Arithmancy. Opening it at no particular page, Draco glared at a few claw marks that had been scratched through it as he recalled Professor Figg’s stupid cat.

“Draco, son,” came the ever familiar voice suddenly, typically causing Draco to start and drop the book on the floor. “How are you?” Draco paused, wondering if this were a trick question as he carefully wrapped his fingers around the book and lifted it, closing it properly and setting it on a table nearby. He then looked towards the fireplace, where Lucius Malfoy’s head was clearly visible, holding a rather amused but cruel expression. Draco was starting to think his father did not so much have a reason for contacting Draco as a whim to criticize someone as much as was humanly possible.

If this _was_ Lucius’ intention, however, he did not let it show. His face was as calm and collected as Draco’s always was in the face of an argument: his chin set, his eyes clear, and his face so much like Draco’s was at times that his son knew this was what he could expect to look like in the future. “I’m fine, Father,” Draco responded after a pause, maintaining eye contact with Lucius as he had done since he was a child. “Just been having a Quidditch practice, that’s-”

“You _have just_ , Draco, not _just_.” Lucius’ voice cut into Draco’s, who fought off the urge to roll his eyes. Lucius Malfoy was neither an English teacher nor somebody who often cared about grammar, except when it came to his son. Draco sometimes wondered if Lucius was trying to mold him into a perfect example of an Englishman, whom Lucius could display at dinner parties and shows. Kind of like a trained monkey who did back-flips on command. A small smirk formed on Draco’s lips now, and he immediately wished he hadn’t allowed it to surface. “Bad English is not a joke, Draco. It will be your future loss when you are turned away because of it, not mine.”

Draco allowed the smirk to disappear, and he nodded slightly. “Yes, Father.”

“How was Quidditch?” Lucius asked now, almost appearing to be asking as an interested father, but Draco knew better than to think so. There was clearly an ulterior motive involved, and as Lucius spoke on, Draco knew he had been right. “I heard that you have been placed on the Gryffindor team. How nice for you, conversing and mixing with the weaker of the school. You must be feeling terribly lucky.” A lazy but malicious smirk curved Lucius’ lips upwards, and Draco thought that although the smirk was ugly, most women seemed to find it very attractive. But that was women for you.

“It was okay,” Draco replied with a shrug, glancing down at his hand and picking at the side of one nail pointlessly. “I’m a Beater now, and Potter’s staying Seeker- we’re…” But he stopped. He thought perhaps it might not go down well if he told his father that he and Harry were co-captains, and were less beating each other up than working together, albeit not on the most friendly terms. Draco still knew his father would not accept this. “We’re staying away from each other, mostly. …Damn Potter.” The last sentence came out as a mutter, which even Draco felt was rather half hearted.

Lucius smirked still. “Of course,” he said, “although I would imagine that would be quite difficult when you are both working so closely together as captains. Wouldn’t you?”

“Um,” Draco replied, feeling suddenly stupid. Of course his father had known; he should have seen it coming. “Well, we’re managing. I just… well, you know I like Quidditch, so I have to put up with it.”

“No, no, it’s fine. In fact, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for you to have a foot in the Gryffindor door.” Lucius looked thoughtful, not so much as though the idea had just occurred to him, but as though he were plotting horrible deaths for each person he disliked. “You might become liked, Draco. You could _get to know them_ , if you see what I mean.”

Draco sighed mentally. Well, it was fairly obvious what his father meant. Draco could get settled on the good side of the constant battle between Dark wizards and Dumbledore’s followers, and find out all the juicy gossip. Anticipate their moves before they made them, kill them before the knife was twisted, etcetera. Make his father the happiest Death Eater on the planet. “Yes, yes I could.” This was all he said, and he looked up again, catching Lucius’ gaze and not breaking it for a long moment.

“There’s a good boy.” Lucius’ drawl was eerily similar to Draco’s at that point, and the younger Malfoy felt rather sick. “I must finish our conversation here, son. I have a very important meeting scheduled. We shall speak soon.” And with that he disappeared from the fireplace, leaving Draco frowning in the dim light of the common room.

***

Draco's eyes flickered downwards as they scanned over the letter in his hands, skimming through details of fantastic dinner parties and sensational gossip concerning certain professors at Hogwarts. Letters from his mother were always the same, though the names and particular details shifted slightly from letter to letter. Though less formal and much less brief than his father's letters, it somehow managed to convey just about as much depth of emotion. His own eagle owl was perched regally on the table beside his bowl of porridge, darting its sharp eyes away from him as it deigned to accept a scrap of toast from the delighted Mary Sue seated faithfully to his right (honestly, how the girl had been placed in Slytherin was beyond him). Fending off a poorly concealed attempt by Pansy to catch a glimpse at the contents of the parchment over the smaller girl's head (Pansy had always been green with envy that Draco somehow managed to know all the juicy gossip before she did even though he wasn't particularly interested in it), Draco folded the letter in half and tucked it into his robes as he decided it was too early in the morning to be put to sleep.

Absently, Draco then pushed the elegantly wrapped box of sweets (courtesy of a house elf courtesy of Narcissa Malfoy) that had accompanied the letter over to the girl beside him who was still fussing with his owl. He realized his mistake too late when she beamed up at him with dewy eyes as if he had just handpicked a dozen roses and handed them to her on bended knee. Great.

"You're not listening to me, Draco," Pansy pouted in his direction when he finally realized she had been speaking. Sighing inwardly, Draco turned to her with a bored raise of his eyebrow.

"Of course I was." He paused. "You were saying…"

"I was _saying_ ," she continued with an injured look in his direction, "that you're spending so much time with those Gryffindor cretins that I hardly ever get to see you anymore."

_And thank Merlin for that,_ Draco though dryly as he drained his cup of pumpkin juice. It had been a few weeks now since Quidditch practice had started, and despite having to associate with 'those Gryffindor cretins' on a daily basis, he found he was almost rather enjoying it if only for the interesting diversion it provided from the rest of his mundane life at Hogwarts. "I can't help it if my expertise is so desperately needed to whip their sorry team into shape. Right, Millicent?" The large girl on the other side of Pansy merely shot him a bland look of hostility from behind her freshly black eye. Draco was still getting the hang of aiming the Bludgers _away_ from his teammates. He cleared his throat. "Right."

"You can't tell me you're actually trying to _win_ the cup for Gryffindor this year!" Pansy shot him an appalled look of accusation as she dropped her spoon back into her porridge.

"Actually, Pansy, I'm trying to win it for _me_." Draco shot her a calculated smile that had nearly as much warmth in it as his own neglected porridge. "I couldn't care less about Gryffindor, but if they benefit from that, well, then it's just their lucky day, isn't it?" There was a snort from further down the table. "You really should learn to chew properly, Crosby. Breakfast can be dangerous."

Martin or Michael Crosby (his first name still escaped Draco from time to time), who was still smarting from having been relegated to being a reserve Chaser on the Ravenclaw team, narrowed his eyes somewhat in Draco's direction. "I just think it's a little strange that you made co-captain so easily."

"I don't blame you for being confused, Crosby," Draco replied with a calm sort of coldness that had the entire Slytherin table now paying attention to the exchange (some more obviously than others). "Talent can be a tough concept to grasp if you've never experienced it for yourself." The smile he aimed at the other boy then could have frozen an entire box of salamanders. Whether intentional or not, it was the sort of smile that made him look very much like his father. It was a smile that was beautiful in its ugliness, that made the hearts of the Slytherin girls race and Crosby’s sink to his stomach. "Care to share some Ravenclaw trade secrets with the rest of us anyway?" Draco hit his forehead suddenly as if just remembering, "oh, that's right, they don't let _reserves_ in on actual strategy. My mistake."  Crosby, who should have known he was out of his league when he dared to challenge a sixth year (especially if that sixth year was Draco Malfoy), at least seemed to know better than to rise to the occasion against his vast superior and merely rose from the table without another word to save face amid the snickers of the other Slytherins. "Send my love to Chang," Draco was referring to the Ravenclaw captain as he called after the other boy on his way out, "if you're even allowed to speak to her without making an appointment."

Turning back to his breakfast, and feeling much more satisfied than he had been a few minutes earlier, Draco grimaced slightly as he noticed Mary Sue gazing up at him with even more abject adoration than before. Beside her, Pansy was still snickering as she shook her head and 'tutt-ed'.

"Really, you'd think a fourth year would have more sense than to go around making accusations like that. Especially at _you_ , Draco. Served him right." Pansy seemed to have her group's wholehearted approval as she took another bite of her breakfast. "But I do wonder sometimes what Potter was thinking when he made you co-captain. Not," Pansy added quickly at the sharp look Draco seemed on the verge of giving her, "that you don't _deserve_ to be captain, Draco. Of course you have more talent than the whole lot of them. But it just seems odd that he'd be willing to admit it, you know how pigheaded they all are."

"Some things are just too obvious to be denied." Draco flashed her that winning smile once more before his gaze cut over to the group in question. Ever since the first week of practice, Potter and Weasley had taken to sitting on opposite ends of the Gryffindor table during meals, while Hermione seemed to alternate between sitting beside one or the other. The rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team seemed to have taken it upon themselves to fill the vacant spot beside Harry and therefore the other captain was constantly surrounded by a crowd of gibbering students (something that only served to make the hotheaded Weasel even _more_ jealous, no doubt). But the cold shoulder was going both ways this time, and neither friend seemed to want to so much as acknowledge the other's existence beyond the occasional monitoring glare.

Draco could tell he wasn't alone in noticing this. At the staff table, Harry's godfather and the werewolf had taken to casting concerned glances at the estranged pair at regular intervals. Even Professor Snape had noticed, and took great delight in forcing the two to work in pairs at every opportunity during Potions just to enjoy the melodious symphony of the stony silence between them.

Pushing his chair back finally, Draco rose to his feet despite the indignant squawk of Pansy who was apparently still in the middle of speaking to him. Reaching into his robe, Draco pulled out the letter from his mother and tossed it down on the table in front of her as his ticket to freedom before turning away, "Here, go nuts."

***

 

Instead of stopping by the Gryffindor table, Draco walked straight past it towards the door, clearly in no mood to be further annoyed. His parents had already managed quite successfully to tear any good mood he adopted lately into two separate halves, which Draco was sure had been the intent of his father’s brief ‘visit’ a few weeks prior. He knew his mother was not ill-meaning in sending him letters, but the content never particularly gave him much to think about. They were hardly declarations of Narcissa’s affection for her son, anyway.

Draco also knew that, as he walked past the long table filled with the ‘better’ ( _Hah_ , thought Draco) students in the school, Harry had noticed. He was fairly certain the boy celebrity had glanced up, his eyes following the blonde Slytherin across the room. Well, that was bloody brilliant. The last thing Draco wanted at this moment was to speak to Harry. He just wanted to go into the Slytherin boy’s dormitory and throw pieces of Blue Tack at the wall.

However, as he heard the doors to the Great Hall swing shut behind him, it was only seconds before they opened again and Harry’s familiar voice came aloud from the bustling sounds and chattering of other students. “Malfoy, you alright?”

Draco turned around, his eyebrow already raised. “Yes, Potter, I’m absolutely bloody fine. Dancing around with an umbrella in the rain, that sort of business.” He didn’t smile, or even offer his famous smirk; he just stood there. He really wasn’t in the mood for anyone to act all concerned for him, least of all Harry Potter.

The past few weeks hadn’t exactly solidified a positive relationship between the two Quidditch captains, but they had established a _knowledge_ of each other, an awareness that they existed and not in a hateful, I-want-to-cause-you-bodily-harm way. The other was just there. They didn’t speak often outside of Quidditch practices, but would nod briefly in the other’s direction in the halls, mumble a ‘Hello’ in classes, and occasionally, in situations such as the one Draco faced right now, have boring conversations in which Harry proceeded to yammer Draco to death.

“Well, good,” Harry replied, seeming satisfied with Draco’s response. “We need to talk about tomorrow’s practice.” Draco rolled his eyes very slightly, which caused Harry to frown. “What? Why are you rolling your eyes now?”

Draco just shrugged. “General boredom. Repetition of conversation. Fatigue. Nothing I can really pinpoint, it’s just-”

“Something you do all the time?” Harry seemed annoyed, but Draco could see something of a playful glint in his eyes that implied he wasn’t as angry as he might be letting on. These days, Harry seemed to be far more tolerant of Draco’s sarcasm, which Draco wasn’t sure if he was happy about or not. It had always been quite satisfying to see Harry so wound up by just one thing he had said.

Pausing now as he apparently mulled over Harry’s comment, Draco shrugged once more, still not enjoying this exchange in the slightest. The common room was so close, he thought to himself; he was close to freedom. If only he could shake Potter from his bloody trail, everything would be fine. “Look, I’m not really in the mood for this, Potter. So just… get on with whatever you want to say and that’ll be that.”

Harry paused. “Alright. I thought maybe you could play Seeker tomorrow, I haven’t been feeling all that great.”

Eyeing him carefully, it was Draco’s turn to give pause now. “Is this some sort of weird peace offering? Or a sympathy play? Because if it is, I want nothing to do with it. Besides, I quite like being a Beater.”

“I’m just trying to be fair,” Harry snapped, any good humour in his eyes having fully dissipated now. “It’s not my fault you’re a miserable git.”

“And it’s not _my_ fault you’re a clueless idiot.” Draco glared back at Harry now, having confirmed in his mind that the Gryffindor boy had caught him at a very bad time. “Going around chasing after me I’m like your best bloody friend and offering me bollocks like playing Seeker for one practice.”

 

“So you’re saying no, then?”

Draco nodded. “I’m saying no.” He gave Harry one more quite pointed look and started away from him, his stance controlled and elegant even when feeling as annoyed as he did now. He walked with purpose, as though he had great intentions for every step he took. He was certain this annoyed almost everybody.

He had reached the stairs, only a few feet away from where he and Harry had stood, when he heard the other boy call, “Fine. Have it your way.” Draco rather thought that he would.

 

***

It was cold on the Quidditch pitch, cold like no other winter, but Harry felt rather numb. He watched Draco flying through the fog filled air from his own broomstick, gliding carefully and gracefully despite his position on the team requiring nothing of the sort. Beaters didn’t generally flap around like broomstick ballerinas.

Harry was on the search for the Snitch, which had been released in these practices to give Harry just that extra bit of practice, and he was grateful for the distraction. He couldn’t help but feel something was wrong; something was out of place or disjointed, something unreal.

The Snitch appeared suddenly in his eye line, golden and dancing almost as gracefully as Draco on his broom, but with more excitement, a slight buzz and hover here and there before it flashed away quickly and disappeared into the mist. Harry set off on his broom, hurrying to find it, his eyes darting around carefully. There it was. Just beside Draco – it wouldn’t be too hard to reach if he was just careful…

It all happened very, very suddenly. Harry’s first thought was that if only Draco would bloody stop yelping, then the Snitch wouldn’t keep moving around and gaining out of his territory. His second thought was, why was Draco yelping?

Harry glanced over to the other boy, but his head refused to move quickly, almost like slow motion. He paused, started, and then gasped as he realized that Draco had stopped on his broom in mid air, his face as white as chalk, his hair unruly and his body seeming… seeming different. It took only seconds before Harry realized the other captain had tumbled off his broom and was falling towards the ground at great speed.

Now Harry moved quickly, as though chasing the Snitch, fighting desperately through the other team members who had stopped in shock as he tried to reach Draco. This was not about friendship, this was about saving a life. Draco would surely die if he hit the ground at that speed-

And then came the thud. The bang. The sickening crack of skull meeting ground, and thick, red liquid seeped slowly onto the sand that usually protected any Quidditch players that dropped from the sky. Harry then remembered, Malfoy had left the ball box on the sand. They didn't need to move it, he had said. It would be fine, just stop bloody complaining.

Harry had stopped complaining. A lump now seemed stuck in his throat, stopping him from calling out but not stopping him from flying towards the ground. When he reached Draco’s side, he knew without a doubt that it was too late.

Draco Malfoy was dead.

***

 

Harry woke with a scream. 

It took him a few moments to realize where he was. His heart was racing, pounding so loudly in his ears that it almost seemed like it was coming from somewhere else, and as he brought a clammy hand to rub at his eyes, he realized two things: that he was drenched in a cold sweat, and he was shaking. And when he closed his eyes he could still see that horrible image of the normally proud and infuriating blonde, limp and broken, crumpled on the ground in a growing pool of blood. Harry couldn't seem to catch his breath as he made a choked attempt to swallow; it had seemed so real.

Beyond the curtains draped over his bed, others had begun to stir. "Harry, was that you? Are you alright?" came a whispered question, and a moment later Neville Longbottom's face appeared as he drew back the veil. Neville was still as short as ever and, though he had lost most of his baby fat, his now concerned face was still the youngest and most boyish looking of the sixth years. "I heard screaming."

Nodding weakly, Harry finally managed to croak out, "just a nightmare." Looking past Neville, he could see Ron in the other bed, awake and watching him with what almost appeared to be concern but in the darkness he might have been mistaken. Everyone else was still fast asleep, and someone was snoring.

Relief washed over Neville's features, and he nodded. "Oh, good. I mean, not that you had a nightmare- I just thought, it sounded like someone might be killing you or something."

"Nope, still alive." Harry managed a weak smile, despite that the rush of panic he had felt moments before didn't seem to be leaving nearly as quickly as it came. "Thanks anyway Neville. You can go back to sleep now. I'll be fine."

"Was it really horrible?" Neville asked.  "I used to get them all the time."

"Yeah." Harry swallowed again. "I just need to sleep it off, I think." Taking the hint, for once, Neville nodded again.

"Ok- g'night Harry." After the curtains had dropped back into place, Harry sat up still with his arms locked around his knees for a long time. He didn't go back to sleep that night.

 

***

 "Oh Harry, there you are." Hermione breathed a sigh of combined exasperation and relief as her eyes alighted on the boy sitting on the low windowsill in the Gryffindor common room, his chin on his knees as he gazed out the window. "I've been looking all over for you. You missed breakfast."

"I know. I'm not hungry." The momentary relief turned quickly to concern as Hermione took in Harry's almost pale face and tired, bleary eyes that still were fixed on the scenery outside. Sitting down on the ledge by his feet, she could see his gaze was settled on the foggy Quidditch pitch in the distance.

"Are you alright? You look awful."

"Thanks, Hermione." Harry finally tore his eyes from the window as he gave his friend a weak smile.

"Oh you know what I mean. You look as if you haven't slept all night." When Harry didn't respond, Hermione gave him a searching look. "Ron told me you had some kind of nightmare last night. Don't look so surprised, you know he still worries about you even if he would never admit it. I just wish-" she checked herself, shaking her head. She could take up her familiar lecture later. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I dreamt that Malfoy died," Harry finally blurted out, and the wild look in his eyes as he did so stifled the sudden laugh that threatened to escape from Hermione, who had been certain it was some horrible dream about his parents or Voldemort.

"Harry," she smiled then, putting a soothing hand on his. "I hate to sound callous but, well, I've dreamed about Malfoy getting his just deserts more times than I can count. It's hardly something to work yourself into a fit over. Just because you dreamed it doesn't mean you _really_ want him dead-"

"No, it wasn't like that. It seemed real, Hermione. It…it felt real." Harry shivered as his eyes looked out the window once more. "We were at Quidditch practice, and he fell off his broom-"

"Well there you go, Harry. Malfoy would never fall off his broom. He's a lot of things, but clumsy isn't one of them," Hermione said as she gave his hand a reassuring pat.

"No, he screamed…I think he screamed _before_ he fell off- like something, or someone, had attacked him." Harry said, his voice growing somewhat indignant as he added, "It felt _different_ , Hermione. It didn't feel like a normal dream."

"I'm sure it didn't," Hermione agreed gently, her mouth a concerned frown. "If it's bothering you so much, maybe you should just cancel practice today. You've been working yourself too hard as it is."

"Look who's talking," Harry managed a droll half smile as he shook his hair (which had grown back into the unruly mop it had once been rather quickly) from his eyes, reluctant to otherwise move from his position.

"Yes well," Hermione gave a soft laugh, "I think putting up with Draco Malfoy counts for my hours of studying doubled. Don't let him get to you, Harry. He's not happy unless everyone else is as miserable as he is, and then some."

"Malfoy didn't give me that dream, Hermione," Harry said seriously, obviously still rather shaken. Harry never was very good at hiding what he felt, not from his friends, at any rate.

"I know. Do you want to know what I think?" Hermione asked, but continued anyway when it looked as if Harry might have responded other than 'yes', "I think you gave that dream to yourself. I think Malfoy makes you more angry with him than you'd like to admit, and it probably makes you feel guilty because you don't like to hate anyone. You just don't have it in you to hate, Harry. Not really. You can be absolutely furious with someone, but you'd never really want them dead."

Harry, who didn't really think this was it at all, just gave a shrug. "I guess."

This seemed to satisfy Hermione, however, who smiled as she stood up and tugged on Harry's arm until he reluctantly climbed to his feet as well. "Come on then, we're late for class as it is. You're lucky we have Care of Magical Creatures and not Potions."

 

***

After Care of Magical Creatures, the Gryffindors and Slytherins had Defense Against The Dark Arts together. Harry, having managed to escape early from the previous class, had decided to go and talk to Sirius, who Harry felt he had rather neglected recently. If there was any problem with being a Quidditch captain, it was certainly not having enough time to do everything else. Unfortunately, though, Harry had had to choose schoolwork over socializing with his godfather, and was glad to get out of Hagrid’s class early. 

He was also still very worried about his dream the previous night, and had hoped Sirius might have some words of wisdom that stemmed beyond Hermione’s advice that he was just feeling guilty. He wasn’t feeling particularly guilty at all, truth be told, because Harry didn’t really _hate_ Draco as much as Hermione probably thought. He was just annoying most of the time, but other times he was actually remotely tolerable. Then again, Harry admitted, he did feel a bit bad about their last conversation. He got the feeling Draco was cold-shouldering him even more than usual after his attempted peace offering of the Seeker position. 

When Harry reached Sirius’ office, he rapped lightly on the door. When he heard his godfather’s voice say in a rather muffled, pained voice, “Come in,” Harry pushed the door open carefully. The sight that greeted him was one he might have found funny if he hadn’t been in such a sober mood. 

Sirius was sitting at his desk, with what look liked a small pixie fixed onto one of his fingers. It looked very painful, because the pixie creature was holding on by what appeared to be very sharp little teeth and as much as Sirius seemed to shake his finger, it just bit harder. Harry looked over with a questioning glance at Sirius, who gave him a forced smile between gritted teeth, and then proceeded to try and wrench the creature from his fingers again. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t…” Harry began, trailing off as Sirius stifled a curse (most likely on account of Harry, who knew the man could curse a blue streak when he thought his godson wasn’t in earshot), gave another annoyed yelp and started banging his finger against the desk. “Here, I’ll help-” Harry removed his wand from his pocket, set it on the desk in case he needed it in an emergency (for example, if the pixie bit off his finger – Harry could at least _try_ to charm it back on), and then grabbed the pixie’s legs with both hands. After a few seconds pulling, he managed to yank it off Sirius. The pixie then struggled for a few moments, before falling into what Harry decided was quite a satisfied sleep. 

After running his finger under the cold tap for about five minutes, Sirius dumped the pixie into a glass jar and glared at it. “Damn thing. This is all Remus’ fault, you know.” He seemed to be muttering more to himself (or even the pixie) than Harry, before finally he turned to his godson and gave him a warm smile. “Sorry about that. That’s a French Pixie; they’re very aggressive. It’s supposed to be a subject for your class but, well, the stupid creature isn’t really doing anything now.” As Sirius pointed again to the jar, Harry was certain he could hear quiet snores echoing from it. “Did you want something in particular, Harry?” 

“Oh, well, I guess.” Harry still felt rather uncomfortable asking Sirius for advice, even though he was the person that Harry trusted most in the world. He supposed he just got uncomfortable asking anyone for help, as he was so used to helping himself. It didn’t help, either, that Hermione had first practically laughed at him and then drawn completely the wrong conclusions when Harry had told her what was on his mind.  

Sirius was looking now at Harry, with worry creasing subtle lines on his now healthy, fleshed-out face. He was no longer the gaunt, desperate ghost of a man he had been the first year or so Harry had known him. When Harry had seen him again for the first time the year before after Sirius had spent the summer traveling with Professor Lupin on some kind of ‘official business’ that had never really been explained to Harry, he had barely even recognized his godfather. Well fed, clean shaven, and smiling- he looked like a different man. Ever since Harry had lived with Sirius, the older man had become very protective of his godson, and Harry secretly thought that it had something to do with the Ministry Of Magic. Although they had cleared Sirius of all charges finally (after much debate and many, many court meetings with Dumbledore, Fudge, a few more Ministry members and Sirius himself), Harry knew Sirius still didn’t really trust any of the officials.  

Harry still wasn’t sure exactly _how_ Sirius had been cleared, because Sirius had refused to tell him about most of the ordeal and had just mumbled something about Dumbledore being a good, good man, and how lucky he was. It had only been a few weeks after all the charges were dropped that Harry had Sirius signed to being his official guardian and within days, Harry had moved into the modest apartment that they shared with Lupin. It wasn’t the most luxurious residence in the world, but Harry didn’t mind. Away from the Dursley’s for his first summer in fifteen years, Harry had had the best holiday of his life. He even had enjoyed doing his homework- instead of having to sneak around about it in the middle of the night, he could get help when he needed it from two of the cleverest wizards Hogwarts had ever seen (though he had quickly learned not to ask Sirius anything to do with Potions, which would just send him off on a rant concerning his “sadistic, greasy git” professor).

Now Harry realized Sirius was looking at him rather expectantly, and he supposed he must have been quiet for a few moments. “Well, I had a dream,” he finally started, nervously. “About Malfoy.” 

Harry was certain Sirius glowered slightly at the name. “What about him?” 

“Well – and don’t laugh – he… he died. And don’t say it was just a bad dream, and don’t say it was just me feeling guilty because I feel just awful about hating him and I don’t have it in me to hate or something. It _meant_ something. I know it did.” Harry’s expression was indignant now, as was his voice, and he was glad to see Sirius wasn’t laughing at all. He just looked rather thoughtful. 

“Have you asked somebody else about this, by any chance? Because I don’t think that.” Pausing for a moment, Sirius then looked at his watch. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened in the dream. We don’t have much time before class, but I can ask Remus and see what he can make of it if you want. He does a lot of dream revision in his spare time, you know. Always pestering me to write mine down so he can practice.” 

Harry didn’t know this, but jumped into describing the dream anyway. “Well, we all had Quidditch practice, the Gryffindor team, and I was looking for the Snitch. When I saw it, it was by Malfoy but Malfoy was screaming in the air. He started falling really fast, and I tried to save him, but he hit his head on the ball box and it cracked open and he died- It was really realistic, Sirius. I’m sure it wasn’t just a normal dream, I’m _sure_. It felt different. It felt _real_.” 

Sirius frowned as he listened, deep in thought once again, before glancing at his watch. “Well… I suppose I would just say, if you’re really that worried, keep an eye on Malfoy during practice. And keep the ball box far away from the pitch just in case.” Sirius gave Harry a friendly wink as he clapped a hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. “In the meantime, I’ll ask Remus if he’s got any stunning insight to share with us. You should go on into class, Harry. I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Harry nodded, not really feeling all that much better, but supposing Sirius was right. He would just have to keep a check on Malfoy, and wait until Lupin or Sirius could shed any light on the dream. But still, it was disconcerting.  


End file.
